Spitfire
by Windschild8178
Summary: Harry Potter is hearing voices, well, one voice; Ron Weasley. His 'maybe' dead ex-best friend who might have betrayed him to his greatest enemy. With such uncertainty in the case file of Ron Weasley, the wizarding world see fit to condemn and move on, but when Ron reappears after two years of absence events are set in motion that will reveal the depths of human endurance and love.
1. Author's Note: Can Skip

Spitfire is an alternative history from mid Deathly Hallows onwards.

Trigger Warnings: I think it's fairly obvious by now that I touch on dark subject matter. Spitfire is no different. But for those who still insist they want one: Psychological damage. PTSD. Torture. Post War topics. Major Character Death. Racism against werewolves. Disfiguration. Homelessness.

[Feel free to skip this and move on to the first chapter: this is entirely an Author's note on both my writing style and the story itself. This is merely for those who have been following me for years and me answering some questions that have come up. There are NO author's notes in the chapters. I have put everything I want to say here.]

Author's Note

I'm so excited for this! While I was writing 'Stay Standing' I kept getting side tracked by the idea of Ron not ever returning when he left. All the possibilities and potential for an alternate world came to mind.

I started drafting in a notebook.

There were times when plot bunnies of the five missing weeks in Stay Standing mingled with this story. When it would take me a month to try to decide what belonged where. I started separating ideas into another folder and it just kept piling up.

I started working on this alternative time line where nothing after Ron left the tent was the same. What would happen if Ron never came back? Ron was vital in restoring hope, of moving their plans forward, and getting Harry and Hermione back on track.

So what if he just… didn't come back?

A much harsher world where the war was more devastating. That's what. Following the ripple affects of the war and Harry and Hermione as they live their lives.

And the funnest part.

Where is Ron Weasley?

Romance

Over and over again, I have people question why there isn't Romance in my work despite the obvious Ron/Hermione pairing. The answer is simple: I am Asexual. So where I think I'm putting a TON of romance in there, most people squint and go… I can… kinda see it? I am incapable of understanding romantic relationships. I have never HAD a romantic interest, physical desire, or even loneliness/want for companionship outside of friendship with another human being. I cannot write this for you guys. I don't know how. What you see is me trying my very best to write emotions that I have never experienced before (but rather, have only read about in books). So, please, understand that while I understand a LOT about how people work and the complexities of relationships, romance will never be my strong suit. In fact, 'Fidelius,' another project I'm working on featuring Aurors Harry and Ron and Law Maker Hermione is my determined attempt at creating romance (It's failing epically, btw, I def. won't be able to label it romance, but I am trying super hard at it).

Fidelius: Ron and Hermione's relationship is failing and she can't figure out why. Ron doesn't seem to want to touch her, but he's the perfect boyfriend otherwise. Meanwhile Auror partners Harry and Ron have just been put onto separate teams and neither of them are happy about it.

Spitfire

Spitfire is about more than learning to forgive, it's about learning the value of those you take advantage of, that at the end of the day, it's never one person's fault or one person's responsibility to try to earn forgiveness.

In the original Deathly Hallows, it always bothered me that it was always Ron's fault in an argument, no matter how untrue or true that was. Harry should have been honest about his frustrations with Dumbledore's plans. Harry shouldn't have been angry at Ron for listening to the radio for signs of his family. Hermione and Ron shouldn't have talked behind Harry's back. Hermione should have- at least once for fucks sake, shown Ron she valued him. Ron shouldn't have been a prat about Harry not knowing what to do. Ron shouldn't have made Hermione choose. Harry shouldn't have told Ron to leave and Ron shouldn't' have left.

Yet Ron was the one groveling when he came back.

The small reassurance from Harry that Hermione and he were like siblings and the mention of Hermione crying every night; that was all Harry told Ron. Neither of them said sorry for the way they acted. Neither of them told Ron that he was valuable or that they missed him. Neither of them ever said they were glad to see Ron.

Ron who is the type of person to _need_ that sort of reassurance.

Sure, we know Harry missed Ron like crazy, but he never told Ron that. We know Hermione loves him and that she was devastated by his leaving, but no one ever told Ron that. Ron who feels out of place in his family and who feels jealousy that his best friend is so well liked and popular, who 'knows' that Hermione prefers Harry because isn't it obvious? Isn't the way Hermione asks Harry about his scars so caring? The way she mother hen's him and the way she is so gentle with Harry and no one else? The soft way she speaks that is never directed at Ron?

Hermione has always shown Harry preferential treatment.

When Ron is groveling and brown nosing after coming back, when he's trying to be positive and get them moving, neither Harry or Hermione showed in any way how much they appreciated it or that Ron was making a difference. There was never any moment of forgiveness either for Hermione. It was a slow 'willingness' to let Ron in.

It bothered me that everyone knows Ron wears his heart on his sleeve, that he's blunt and honest and blunders a lot, but tries his best. They know Ron isn't the type to pick up on subtlety. They know Ron is clueless when it comes to delicate situations and that he needs to be told by those he loves and trust that he is important in order to really believe it himself and yet…

No one does.

Instead there is this stubborn belief that they are in the right. Always. Ron is constantly reminded of his humility by being humiliated and pushed down. There is a sort of sadistic comic relief garnered to him in the books that leaves me feeling a little sick rather than chuckling. The way people treat him like a fool despite the ring of truth he has to say.

Spitfire is about resolving this for me. While writing it, I garnered a satisfaction in seeing the slow realization by the characters of what it means to lose Ron Weasley and what it will take to get him back.

One Last Warning: I do plan on making this a threesome trio fic. Slow burn. VERY slow burn. And probably will look more like a friendship than anything (as I've said before, I'm asexual). I will be trying my best though. Threesomes have always made more sense to me in the complexity and support they can give and threesome relationship's always seem to be the healthiest in the books I've read. It makes sense to me that these three would end up together, though that's probably my lack of understanding in the basics of romantic relationships more than anything else.

This will be slightly different than my last stories because each chapter will be less than 5,000 words. Most of my chapters for my other stories run me about 10,000 to 20,000 words long. I'm hoping that cutting down on the length of the chapters will allow me to do faster updates. Currently I have 14 chapters written for Spitfire running the length of about 45,000 words so far. I have four future chapters written as well (21,22,23,24) so about 60,000 written. The first two 'arcs' are done. I'm well into the third arc. This story is looking as if it might have seven or eight arcs. The outline is still working itself out.

I hope you enjoy all the stories I've been scribbling away at.


	2. Prologue: Phoenix

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Prologue: Phoenix Fire

Bone weary, Hagrid moved away from Grump, the giant having finally fallen asleep, to go up towards the castle. His little brother really loved to rough house, that was for sure, and there were some days even Hagrid had difficulty not snapping at the boy. Today seemed to be one of those days.

Not only that, but the woods, there appeared to be something… a bit off about it tonight. They were unsettled. The animals reacting to something they did not like. Not necessarily the same as a creature being unwelcome, no, when that happened they cleared out of the area and silence reigned supreme amongst the nooks and crannies. Tonight they roamed in clear anxiety.

An animal must be hurt.

He spent a little more time than he normally would searching the perimeters, but couldn't find anything, so, at last, he wandered back to his hut. The nearer he got to the school though, the more his intuition told him he was close. His thoughts went to Aragog, wondering if an animal had gotten into the castle or the surrounding perimeter. A shriek broke the air and Hagrid found his head snapping up.

Faux. It was Dumbledore's Phoenix. He felt his insides go cold as he watched the phoenix hovering above the castle. It was letting out an unhappy shrill. He dropped his bag, rushing up to the castle, walking past students briskly as he took the stairs six at a time.

Not Dumbledore.

Anyone but Dumbledore.

Godric, he felt sick. There was vomit threatening to rise. The man was probably the closest thing he'd had to a father after his papa passed away. The half giant forced his way through the halls until he found himself standing outside the great man's office.

"Rainbow gum drops."

The gargoyle leaped aside, its features seeming to frown at him as it always did, but instead of letting the thing unnerve him like usually, he hardly paid it a second glance.

He feet thudded against the stone steps like thunder and he burst through the doors to see McGonagal with grim features and sad eyes… talking to Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore, Sir, thank our lucky stars, 'es good to see ya!"

He felt the urge to hug the man, but controlled himself.

"Hagrid," Dumbledore said softly, the man spared him one of his fond smiles, but his eyes were haunted. Hagrid straightened up as Dumbledore ushered him in with a wave of his good hand. "So I take it you've heard."

"No sir, Faux is upset, thought 'erhaps something happened to ya."

"No, no, I'm perfectly fine. I'm afraid, however, that a grave incident has taken place involving Mr. Ronald."

His heart tightened in his chest. The hands on his knees gripped his pants until his knuckles turned white. Merlin. He felt his lips tremble, felt his voice shake as he asked.

"Ron? Well, what 'appened to him? He ain't hurt is he?"

McGonagal placed her hand on his arm, her eyes gentle. At the professor's unusual display of care, he gulped hard.

"He was poisoned earlier today," McGonagal told him, before she hurried on to say, "he nearly died. He's going to be okay, but it was very close."

Hagrid felt his whole body shudder. The image of Ron's impish grin forming in his eyes. Watching the kid sprout up like a bean pole. Lanky features always offering him a friendly pat on the back. The boy risking everything to help him get his baby dragon to safety, risking his life to get him out of Askaban, defending him when they attempted to kill **Buckbeak.** Ron hadn't batted an eye when the truth about his half-giant heritage came out in fourth year. And Ron had helped take care of his little brother last year and this year. How could something like this happen to such a good hearted kid?

He hiccupped, taking big shuddering breath, trying to keep it under control in front of two of the people he admired most in the world. He turned away from them, but felt McGonagal, pull him back to her and the old witch's arm briefly give his right arm a hug. He smiled down at her through watery eyes.

"He's in the medical wing," she said softly.

Hagrid nodded his head, straightening his shoulders.

"Righty o, best get down there."

He went to leave when Dumbledore called out to him.

"Hagrid, if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the east side of the forest after you're finished, I would be greatly pleased."

He paused, then nodded his head, too choked up to trust himself to speak.

Later that evening, having spent most of his day going back and forth between the hut and hospital, furtively checking in on the half-conscious, pale figure known as Ron, he wandered into the clearing Dumbledore had shown him so long ago. It was where the Thestral herd came to safely conceive their offspring. Contrary to popular biased belief… Thestral's were no Pegasus who'd rotted away or been cursed by wizards. They were innocent creatures, their own species, their own life forms.

"The last time I brought you here, you were, but a young man unsure of his place in the world," Dumbledore's voice murmured as Hagrid walked towards him. Hagrid turned, beaming despite his nerves for the evening. Dumbledore returned the smile, but there was something unusually grim about the set of his features this evening that set off Hagrid's warning bells. Dumbledore continued. "You have grown into a fine man, Hagrid, one of whom I could not be prouder. I do not say this lightly: I trust you with my life. With the life of many, in fact, there are very few I think of as capable as you."

Speechless, tears threatening, no, spilling down his cheeks, Hagrid remained silent. Dumbledore did not give away compliments so easily and he felt that, on this occasion, the older gentleman was saying many things more than what the simple words suggested.

"Do you still remember the story I told you, back then?"

"Ai, 'bout you and Faux, how you found him while he was in his dying cycle and it scared the living daylights out of you." Hagrid chuckled at that. "And how you took him back to Hogwarts and cared for him. 'Bout how you cried when he died. How he chose you when he was reborn from his ashes."

Dumbledore nodded, warmth exuding from his being.

"So strange that such a small, simple display of human compassion can affect the course of ones' entire life, isn't it?"

Hagrid nodded. How he missed this. They used to do things like this often. Talking into the night about a great many things. But that had been before the war started up again. Before Harry had come to Hogwarts. The boy had managed to keep everyone on their toes during his time at Hogwarts, even Dumbledore. Well, especially Dumbledore.

"It wasn't quite that simple though," Dumbledore surprised him by saying. "Life rarely is. I'm afraid I never told you the full truth. Faux has stayed by my side for a great many reasons, my compassion for his life being one, but there were… larger things about, you could say."

"You don't say," Hagrid breathed.

He wouldn't say he was giddy, but he'd be hard pressed to find another emotion. He felt like a little kid who'd been told their favorite bed time story wasn't finished, not even halfway through.

"I've lived a very privileged life, Hagrid," Dumbledore said softly. "You are one of the people for whom I respect above everyone else. I feel then, considering the circumstances, I want to be completely honest with you. But I am only human, my friend, and I fear losing the respect and admiration you've shown me these many years."

Considering the older man's words for a long moment, he was at a loss with how to respond, but after a moment it came to him. Hagrid sat down on the grassy hill they stood upon, to better place the tall wizard at eye level.

"It's been an honor to serve you, Dumbledore, an honor. And it's going to stay an honor. Now, as far as I'm concerned, I ain't ever seen nobody, not nobody, who hasn't done sometin' they'd rather keep locked up in some trunk six feet underground. Unlocken' them trunks on purpose? For someone else? Well, I don't think I've seen anythin' much braver then that, sir. Maybe might make my own trunks a little less heavy on me, eh?"

The gratitude in those old eyes was like a mini sun to Hagrid's heart.

"I had a wonderful family growing up, remarkable companions, and a most fortunate turn of luck to have established a name for myself at a very young age. I developed into a young man who needed to know everything. I wanted to discover things, to create things, to be remembered. I thought myself above others, and it is to my dismay that there are days when I still do, when this old mind of mine forgets humbleness and embraces arrogance. I have made grave mistakes. More than I dare count."

Hagrid listened with rapt attention, feeling that it was vital he not forget a single thing. They sat there for most of the night, until the thinnest rays of the sun began to spread itself across the horizon. Dumbledore told him about those countless mistakes. Some made Hagrid cringe, others thoughtful, but he never judged. His own mistakes in life were different, but no less awful. He suspected that was true for everyone. When a comfortable silence stretched between them for some time, Dumbledore finally spoke the words Hagrid had feared since the start of this discussion.

"Faux has chosen another human."

Hagrid felt his breath hitch.

"It's odd, isn't it? Phoenixes are not known for choosing humans so close together in time. Normally they will be forced to wait several hundred years before they find another of their nature."

Dumbledore did not mention that the bird of life and death were lifelong companions. That should a Phoenix chose another, it meant the person they'd attached themselves to would not live much longer.

Stifling his sobs, Hagrid refrained from mentioning it as well. He could do this for Dumbledore. He could avoid the topic the man did not wish to broach.

"Who is it?" Hagrid voiced, his loud rumble down to a soft boom.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he turned to Hagrid.

"The Phoenix is a funny creature. Its affinity is fire. An element both destructive and guiding. Fire burns, yes, but it is also light. Faux chose me because of my compassion, but also for my desire for greatness. He chose this person, I suspect, for the boy's protective nature and his desire to stand out from the shadows. To be heard despite the many who wish to silence him."

Hagrid thought about that for a long time. At first he thought of Harry, as the boy seemed to be the center of everything as of late. It didn't fit though. He'd known Dumbledore, and by extension Faux, a long time. The phoenix would never have chosen Harry. The boy was too kind hearted, too soft in many aspects, too straight forward mind, and he only wanted to blend in with the world. The phoenix was a proud creature and tended to stick with those who demonstrated pride. Faux needed someone who thought differently than others, who was equal parts strong willed, defiant, dark, and light.

It clicked.

Hagrid grinned down at Dumbledore, even from his sitting position.

"It's Ron, isn't it?"

Dumbledore chuckled.

"Yes, I had my suspicions for a long time about the boy's affinity. Where Harry's soul seeks out peace, Ronald's desires chaos. He thrives off of a good fight. Whether that be against Mr. Malfoy physically or against Miss. Granger mentally. Yet in the same stride…"

"He's fierce when it comes ta protecting his friends," Hagrid stated proudly.

Dumbledore nodded.

"He's the only one who will be able to use my Deluminator when I pass," Dumbledore confessed. "Because of the bond Faux and I share, when Faux's next death cycle comes, it will last quite a while. Over a year, at least. It will come as quite the shock when Faux shows up on Mr. Ronald's doorstep, I'm sure."

"Ya need me to help him, ya?" Hagrid sniffed. "I will. Ya can bet your candy collection, I will. I'll be there for all three, I will."

"Thank you, Hagrid. I fear the coming days for Harry, Ronald and Miss. Hermione will be devastating. They will be tried in ways neither of us can imagine. There will be times when they feel it is difficult to go on, but I have full confidence that they are the key to our salvation, because they have the sort of spirits that will get back up and keep fighting."

"Darn right," Hagrid muttered.

They stayed like that long after the sun had risen, only heading back to Hogwarts when Hagrid was in danger of being late to his own class. It hurt, the knowledge he now carried, but he felt privileged as well. To be acknowledged by his father figure in protecting the generation he would be leaving behind soon. He would protect those three with everything he had.

He would protect Harry.

He would protect Hermione.

He would protect Ron.


	3. Chapter 1: Voices

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter 1: The Voice

Months of nothing but death and destruction in Britain had caused such instability that those left over… the few who survived the devastation of the war, now had to face rebuilding it from those ashes.

By forging a new government.

Through arresting left over scum, rescuing victims, and ensuring that no one was sentenced without a fair trial, without all the facts.

Doing everything possible to rebuild so that there was a school for the children to return to. A place for the homeless to take shelter. Where those who'd lost everything could scrounge up work or a purpose to keep going. They had to build all of that from the ground up.

And a hell of a lot of it had to do with paperwork.

Making sure the right file made it to the right place, the right order and instructions, the right information. Reports on crimes, on eye witness accounts, research into the backbones of their operation and documentation on evidence.

Harry Potter dug his hands into his eyes, tempted to actual gauge his them out. Black and white. It felt as if that was all he'd seen in _days._

"Ignore the paperwork for the Filmore case for now. Focus on what's due tomorrow morning," a voice said over his shoulder.

"Shut up."

Ron flinched, but ignored Harry anyways, continuing in his advice.

"You haven't slept in four days, and no, the nap you took yesterday doesn't count. You're no good to anyone if you don't take care of yourself."

Harry pulled out the report due tomorrow morning, scanning it over to see where he'd left off before lunch. The arrest of Rebastan Lestrange. He still had to interrogate the man. Said appointment had been designated to tomorrow morning. Try to make the criminal sweat. Too bad this was a Lestrange though. They didn't sweat. Instead they grinned and manipulated and teased, as if it were you chained to the table, facing execution.

Ron, watching him from the corner now, sighed.

"You should have someone else interrogate him. It will upset you."

"You work with him or something?" Harry snapped.

Ron flinched again, avoiding Harry's eyes.

 _That_ was the thing that bothered him the most. The fact that Ron would never even try to deny anything. That Ron wouldn't fight back against anything Harry said no matter how preposterous. He wouldn't say anything at all about being missing. He wouldn't say anything about his disappearance or the consequences of the leaked information. Ron refused to open up about it. Or couldn't.

Ron still got angry.

Ron screamed at him to eat when he left a plate half finished. Ron snapped at him when he left Hermione to cry on her own. Ron glared from across the room when he did one more training session than he could handle. Ron got hacked of at people who were pompous and self-righteously angry when someone leered at Hermine or Harry. He was still passionate and argued with Harry, but when it came to the mystery of it all; what had happened to Ro after he disappeared… left? There was never any defense or passion or anger to be had. It left Harry feeling sick and anxious whenever Ron stood there, like a shadow, no, like a haunted dead thing waiting for Harry to figure it out. Begging him to understand. Pushing him away from the truth. Wanting to be close and distant at the same time.

Just like every other time, Ron didn't answer the demand.

Harry didn't push.

Instead Harry filled out the Filmore report, and just to spite Ron, he did the ones due two or three days from now. Ron only sighed as Harry sent them off to all their respective departments. He scheduled the interrogation for in the morning, sending off a request for a room to be prepped for him. Exhausted to the tips of his fingers and the nails of his toes, Harry dragged himself away from the desk. A well-earned ten hours of sleep waiting for him before getting up and doing all over again. Ron was right about that, at least, he needed to get some sleep if he would be any use to anyone.

He packed up and got out of there, ignoring all the whispers of his name. It would fade eventually. Probably not completely, but enough to be bearable. When he made it to Hermione's office, Harry let himself in, seeing her furiously working behind an oak desk that dwarfed her.

"Hermione."

She looked up, briefly, before going back to her work. Two black bags of sleeplessness sitting beneath her eyes. She was muttering to herself. Though Harry was the last person on the planet who could lecture her about such behavior.

"Don't give her a choice. Just start packing up her things," Ron told him. He was sitting on a filing cabinet. Blue eyes flickering with sadness as they watched her work. Harry felt uncomfortable at the gaze.

' _I'm not you.'_

"Hermione," Harry called again, gently. He braced his hands on her shoulders, feeling how tense they were. Her head leaned against his, like she was trying to suck up all of his strength. "Hermione, let's go home."

"There's just a few more papers that need to be finished tonight," Hermione whispered. "We can go as soon as I finish those."

"They aren't just a few and you know it," Ron called from his spot. "You know her, Harry, you know that you'll be sitting here for at least an hour more. You both need to get home and get some…"

Harry shot Ron a venomous glare.

Ron's face wilted. The flickering sadness disappearing into something more hallowed out. The broad shoulders hunched in on themselves and Ron nodded, slowly, casting his eyes downward. Harry turned back to Hermione, squeezing her in a half hug.

"Half an hour, no more. I'm going to get us some tea."

"That sounds lovely," Hermione tried to smile, but failed.

They were there forty-five minutes longer as Hermione scraped pen across paper. Ron had left, looking like a very sad, very kicked puppy. Harry didn't call after him. He didn't acknowledge him at all, actually. In fact, Harry spent his days trying to pretend like Ron didn't exist at all.

Most of the time, Ron took the hint.

* * *

Ferris Morehill was an Auror who enjoyed gossip. Harry didn't mind him. The man was experienced. He'd worked to get muggleborns and half-bloods alike out of the country during the height of the war. Mainly to German safe houses, Ferris's parent's home being one of them. He was a good guy.

Still, today Harry felt the urge to punch him in his stupid face.

"I hear he's moving through Scotland right now," Ferris muttered.

"Nobody's heard anything about him being anywhere," Aiden Grey sighed in exasperation. The young Auror was only a year or two older than Harry himself, a Ravenclaw before ever joining the ranks. "That's the great mystery of it."

"I'm telling you Rivets claims she caught a glimpse of him after they busted that Death Eater hold up. Red hair, gangly, had a mask of his very own."

"There's not been one person whose actually seen Ronald Weasley working as a Death Eater. Most think he was tortured and killed. It's all _rumors_ ," Aiden said, emphasizing the last part. "I met Ron at Hogwarts. I really don't think he was the type of guy to turn sides. It's all garbage."

"I think anything is possible. I went to school with Peter Pettigrew and I never in a million years would have thought the little shrimp could betray anyone. Sweet kid he was. Offered me ink once after I spilled mine all over the floor," Ferris told him.

Harry tried ignoring them, but every room had three desks and much to his chagrin, only ten or so feet separated him from his fellow Aurors.

"Rumors," Aiden repeated. "That's all the information we have on him. Nothing else."

"And don't you find that odd?" Ferris pointed out. "Potter's right hand man goes missing and a few months later Voldemort knows everything. Yet no word at all, one way or the other, about Weasley?"

"The most likely scenario with the information we have," Aiden said, gesturing to their paperwork, "is that Ron was tortured for the information and was murdered after they got it from him."

"But what about what You Know Who told Potter?" Ferris insisted.

"Voldemort was a dark lord trying his best to murder Potter, messing with a person's head in the middle of a duel is one of the most basic tactics they teach. If anything one would do best to believe the _opposite_ of what someone like him tells you."

"Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you really think Weasley's a hero?" Ferris said, incredulous.

"There is no evidence," Aiden finally snapped. "There are a least six different witness accounts a week from people who swear up and down that they saw Ron Weasley. Saving them. Stealing from them. Trying to murder them. None of them are true. Not one. Why? Because he's gone. No matter what he did, it's obvious that Ronald Weasely is dead. And personally I think it's sick and wrong that everyone uses a kid who was probably tortured to death as a scapegoat for all this shit."

Ferris shifted, looking uncomfortable.

"Potter seems to think it's true," Ferris finally said.

"No, Potter hasn't said anything about it at all, he avoids the topic like the plague," Aiden corrected.

"Potter," Harry said dryly, "is still very much in the room with you."

They both jerked, staring at Harry in abject horror. It wasn't entirely their fault. He had an animosity stone in his pocket. He and Hermione took to having one on them at all times. It cut down on a world of headaches.

Both Ferris and Aiden jumped out of their seats in surprise. Staring wide eyed and speechless at the pile of books separating them. Hermione had placed them there for safekeeping while her office was being repaired after a runaway curse. They blocked the view completely, making the stones power only that much more powerful. Out of sight. Out of mind.

"I thought you were on lunch," Ferris said, apologetic.

"Yeah, we never would have… that is… sorry," Aiden added, the young Auror's face was beat red, his voice wobbly as he pulled out paperwork and started to hurriedly scribble out his latest report.

Harry grabbed the last of his paperwork and shoved it into his desk.

"Well, I wasn't before, but I certainly am now," Harry muttered. Ferris nodded jerkily, giving a guilty start as Harry glared at him on the way out of the office.

* * *

Most of the time Ron took the hint, acknowledging that Harry wanted nothing to do with him. Ron would disappear. Harry would hear nothing from him for weeks on end. It was horrible and relieving all at the same time.

Soon enough things would get too much for Harry though; with the silence, with the people, with Hermione. He had a hard time dealing and whenever it felt like he couldn't go on anymore, Ron sort of just knew. He would just… show up in his kitchen, try to make jokes, tell him stories, fill the house up with noise. Ron would open up a light in him that Harry wasn't even sure he had anymore.

He hated it.

Hated relying on _him_ for anything.

Hated that if Ron weren't there, then he probably wouldn't be able to get up in the morning.

Like _this_ morning. Harry pulled on his Auror robes and marched into the Ministry, Hermione at his side, as if Dementors were chasing him. Just before she escaped to her office, he caught her hand, her soft brown eyes met his and he held on tight for a moment, willing as much warmth and love as he could into the small gesture. Hermione moved forward and hugged him. Tight. Fierce. Then she leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek.

"Good luck," she whispered.

Then she was gone.

Harry took her luck and held it to his chest as he moved towards the interrogation room. Ron's words from yesterday sticking to the back of his skull like cheap stickers to the cover of books.

It didn't surprise him in the least when he spotted Ron leaning against the door of the interrogation room. There was a set frown on his face as he stared Harry down. He had to hold his tongue to keep from lashing out at the redhead.

"Leave this to someone else," Ron hissed. "He knows everything I know. He's just going to fuck with you in there. He was one of Voldemort's right hand men, right up there with Bellatrix."

"And whose fault is it that he knows so much? Whose fault is all of this!?" Harry snapped, straightening his clothes and making sure no one else was around. That was the last thing he needed. Harry leaned in closer to Ron, staring sharp blue eyes down. "From where I'm standing, it seems like Voldemort's right hand man was a lot better than mine."

Ron's eyes shined with hurt as he hid his face, turning away from him.

"If you need me…" Ron tried to offer.

"Then I know you won't be there," Harry hissed.

Before he knew it, he was inside the interrogation room.

Rebastan Lestrange was a large man. Harry, who'd known Hagrid since childhood and had watched Ronald Weasley grow to be a six foot five tower of a man, had never felt intimidated or nervous around those of the large variety. Still, the intense aura around Rebastan, one of dark loathing and resentment, coupled with the clenching of his fists (as if he intended to reach across and strangle him at any moment despite the chains keeping him to the floor) left Harry feeling weary and watchful.

This was Bellatrix Lestrange's brother in law, the madwoman having left a lasting impression on Harry throughout the war. Rebastan rarely made headlines though, far more calculating, a shadow worker (as the older Aurors put it). He was a man who got things done from behind the curtains and didn't care to take credit as long as it was handled. At least, that was the reports supplied by other Death Eaters.

The trials were set to start soon, held off only due to the government pulling itself back together again. It needed time, even as the amount of Prisoners increased to near full capacity. It made Tonks, Kingsley, and himself on edge about innocents sitting beside true Death Eaters, but there was little that could be done. If they wanted to do things right, if they wanted to avoid the Sirius Blacks and Peter Pettigrews of the world, then they needed to take their time sorting and apprehending all supposed offenders. Starting with those believed to be innocent and working their way, case through difficult case, until only the foulest and most assured of guilt were left.

Harry sat down across from Rebastan with an air of false casualness. The Death Eater didn't so much as blink, eyes following him like some kind of predator. This interview was just a precursor… to gauge how difficult the actual interrogation would be. He needed a partner for that. But for now.

Harry gestured towards the swollen shut black eye on the man's face.

"How's the healing process? They treating you well? A chocolate on your pillow each night?" Harry prodded, grinning when the stoic man's lips curled. Rebastan's leaned forward, chains clinking as he did.

"How's the traitor?" Rebastan returned.

Harry fought to keep from looking at the door, from giving himself or Ron away.

"Traitor?" Harry said evenly.

* * *

Ron's wanted poster had been posted on the Auror's board. It wasn't frightening like Sirius's picture had been. There was no crazed look on his face or anything of the sort. In fact, it was a picture from fifth year, of him in Hogsmeade, snow on his head as he turned to Hermione standing just out of shot of the camera. There was that familiar crooked grin on his face as he was in the middle of telling her something, his hands gesturing animatedly.

It was the most recent picture of him. Harry hadn't realized, really, that they hadn't stopped to take any in sixth year. The red head looked so care free. Happy. He hadn't seen Ron like that in a long time.

"You're doing it again," a voice said from behind him. He turned to see Tonks staring at him sadly. He jerked. Looking away from the photo at the opposite wall.

"Do we have a lead?" Harry asked.

"Found an address in the coat we caught Rebastan in. Gathering up a team to hit the house before it gets out we have him in our custody."

Harry nodded.

"When do we head out?"

"Half an hour," Tonks told him. "Make sure you have your armor on. Double check the spell work. Let Perkins go ahead of you."

Harry nodded. Tonks was the only one who would give him advice about how to do raids or start an investigation. Most of the others expected him to know, despite the fact that the Auror training program had been temporarily suspended the last six months or so and was just now starting to train new potential Aurors. Harry made to leave, glancing at Ron's picture again when Tonk's fingers shot out to grip his chin.

"Stop looking at it. It's unhealthy."

She let his chin go. Harry fought the urge to turn. Nodding sharply and heading towards his lockers to retrieve what was necessary.

The war had weeded out all those Aurors who joked a little too much, who slacked a little too much, who didn't take the job seriously enough. All those were dead. The Aurors on every team and in all the departments were the veterans of war. So it was no surprise that rather than within the half hour, all six members of Tonk's raid team were assembled in the next fifteen minutes. She nodded in approval.

Ron walked beside him. He didn't say anything, but he looked vaguely sick, glancing at Harry with worry as they made their way to one of Rebastan's safe houses. Two Aurors (one being Tonks) took the back. Two on each side of the house. He and Perkins would be going through the front door. Harry settled beside the more experienced Auror. Watching closely as the man performed sweeping spells.

A bright blue owl flew over the roof.

Their signal.

He and Perkins attacked the wards as one. Four other attacks came from all around the house, each one designed to seek out the weakest point in the shields. They hit four more times, and finally the wards came down. The house was silent as they approached and entered, wands at the ready.

Seemingly abandoned.

Tonks had warned him that those were often the most dangerous cases. He kept alert. Eyes scanning the well-stocked, but otherwise normal wizarding home. A quick look at some of the documents on the table informed them that the house was owned by a Death Eater named Mulciber. He had never met the Death Eater in person, as the man had died in one of the final battles, but there were tales of his cruelty. All the Death Eaters had earned such titles though.

Even…

"Upstairs is where they'll be… if any of them are still alive," Ron muttered.

Harry nodded, not verbally acknowledging his words, but heeding them none the less. He signaled Perkins a question, gesturing upstairs. The man nodded. Wands out, they moved up the stairs, joining Tonks and her partner along the way.

They found two dead bodies in the first room. Their faces were carved up beyond recognition and one of the bodies jaws had been purposefully unhinged from the rest of the head. They'd been chained to the floor of the bedroom and with a sick realization Harry knew that the Death Eaters had slept in those beds. Slept in beds as their prisoners suffered and died at their feet. Chained to the floors like animals.

The second bedroom held no bodies, but splotches of blood along the floor. The third bedroom sported a single body of a man. Tall. Broad shouldered. Harry's heart skipped a beat. He kneeled before the man, taking in the aged skin. No, it was no one he recognized. When he and Perkins made to leave the room though, Ron lingered.

Harry turned back, they needed to check the rest of the house before they further investigated. It was standard procedure. He hesitated a moment, watching the way Ron was gazing around the room.

He followed Perkins.

They found several dark objects, but no more dead bodies and no Death Eaters. The perimeter secure, Harry hurried back to the third bedroom. He found Ron staring at the body, more specifically, at a place just behind the body.

"What is it?" Harry whispered.

Ron's long fingers moved forward, tracing a plank of wood. He turned and Harry found himself being stared down by haunted eyes.

"Harry," he whispered.

Harry was there in an instant, staring at the plank of wood. It didn't look… it was discolored. Blood, but not as fresh as the other blood. Fingernail trails. There was a small corner of the floorboard missing.

"How'd you notice that," Harry whispered.

"Notice what?" Perkin's asked, stepping into the room.

"There's something by this body," Harry said. "How long before our field investigator gets here to examine the body?"

"Fifteen, sit tight. We expected a safe house, not a make shift prison."

"Not a safe house," Ron muttered. He looked up at Harry. "More like a halfway point for transportation to other prisons. I think this place was an apparition point between the two furthest prisons. Bristol and Dersewel."

"Bristol and Dersewel?" Harry asked.

Ron nodded slowly, watching Harry from the corner of his eye.

Harry's Auror partner, Perkins, turned to Harry, a frown on his face.

"Bistrol is filled to the brim with dead bodies. There wasn't a cell that didn't have prisoners in it. Probably have places like this set up all over the place to even things out," Perkins said in disgust. "I've never heard of Dersewel though. Where was that one located?"

He didn't know the answer to that so he said nothing. Ron too remained silent, still staring blankly at the small spot of wood. Perkins became distracted by marks on the window and, deciding it was more pressing then stoic Potter's refusal to answer, went to inspect it for documentation.

When the field investigators arrived, they filed out of the room, even Ron reluctantly left the scene. Harry leaned against one of the walls next to him, watching them work, under his breath he asked.

"Were you here?"

It was something they never talked about. Something that neither of them broached. Ron gave a non-committed shrug. Harry had to hold back from losing his temper, but paused as Ron gingerly touched his chest, feeling something Harry couldn't see or know. Harry paled at the implication, all the anger draining away to leave an empty husk of emotions.

While they dealt with the bodies, the Aurors worked their way through paperwork spread out about the house. Looking for any left behind information. Mulciber had dealt primarily with Snatchers, following leads and meeting with men who claimed to have someone or something in relation to Harry himself. This fact had caused a dark pit to open up in his stomach. A gnawing raw thing that left him feeling sick.

He glanced at Ron, but Ron refused to meet his eyes.

 _Finally_ \- the investigators had finished with and retrieved the bodies, locking them in body bags. Harry found himself in the third bedroom again. He leaned down over the spot where the body had been, knowing that the pants he was wearing would need to go through a thorough wash (that may or may not require actual fire).

He touched the boards, feeling the indents of wood where finger nails had pried and tore, vehemently ignoring the urge to look at Ron's fingers. He found the small chip in the plank and, using his wand, lifted wood carefully from its place. The hole was dark. The thought of dark objects entered his mind and Harry decided that moving the whole bed from the spot would make this easier.

The noise of moving furniture brought Tonks and Perkins up to join him and Ron. Harry gestured to the hole. Tonks got the hint, casting a Lumos and holding it above the hole. Perkins tested the waters, detection spells and safety precautions filling the air. When nothing came back, Harry lowered himself onto the floor once more and looked inside.

Nothing.

He shoved his hand in, feeling around the hole. His fingers clipped it. He reached further, feeling the cylinder like object in his hands. Carefully, he pulled it out, holding it before all three of them.

Tonks balked.

"That's…"

"What?" Perkins asked, examining the little object. "What is it?"

Harry flicked it open. Immediately all the lights in the room were drawn to it. Swirling around before being engulfed. Leaving them in darkness. Harry clicked it closed then clicked it open. The light returned.

"It's Ron Weasley's deluminator," Harry answered.

"Does that mean he was here?" Perkins gasped, looking around the house as if it were brand new. "Do you think the bed was his?"

The room fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ron hugging himself, staring at Perkin's in disgust and horror. He looked like he as holding himself together. And then, his face ashen and devastated, Ron left. Harry snapped.

"Ron Weasley is NOT a Death Eater," Harry hissed.

"Oh! Um, of course, I mean, the evidence is shoddy at best," Perkins stuttered. "Public opinion aside, there's really very little…"

"There's NOTHING!" Harry roared. "There is nothing that proves anything! You think he dug his nails into the boards because he was one of them!?"

"I didn't mean…" Perkins panicked, backtracking in words and in footing.

"Enough!" Tonks growled, her hair going from dull brown to a nasty shade of red. "We will not fight like petty children on the job."

Harry clutched the deluminator to him as he glared at the older Auror. Perkins knew his stuff, but he was a mild-mannered man and while good in a fight, he would rather avoid verbal confrontations. Harry had never considered these traits cowardly until that moment.

"The raid was a bust," Tonks said after a moment, she turned to Harry. "I want you to go home. Cool off. I want you to turn _that_ over to evidence on your way out the door."

"Evidence for what?" Harry demanded.

"For anything and everything," Tonks snapped. "For any circumstances it might prove or for any situation it might disprove or for anything that might come up. If the owner of the object is alive, then he can retrieve it upon being proven innocent. If you believe him to be innocent then you will have no difficulties turning in evidence that will help in his case."

Tonks was the head of the Auror Department.

Tonks was a Widow.

Tonks was a single mother to a toddler.

Tonks was tired and aggravated and so very, very weary.

"Believe in him," Tonks said more gently. "Turn it in."

 _That_ crumbled him. Harry turned in the device, reluctantly, and headed home. The flat was quiet without Hermione tinkering and scribbling away, still at work. Ron was there. Sitting on one of the couches in the living room, staring down at the chess set displayed on the side table. Harry sat down on the couch listening to the clock tick the minutes away.

"I _need_ you to tell me you're innocent," Harry pleaded with the empty air in front of him. "I _need_ you to tell me that none of it is true."

"You know, don't you?" Ron whispered. "That I'm not really here?"

Harry didn't answer.

No one was in the room with him, after all.


	4. Chapter 2: Dersewel

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter 2: Dersewel

* * *

 **Order of the Phoenix** : _Classified_

Missing Members

Rubeus Hagrid- August 31st, 1997

Remus Lupin- September 13th, 1997

Lee Jorden- September 13th, 1997

Fleur Weasley- November (?) 1997

Hestia Jones- October 11, 1996

Ronald Weasley- November (?) 1996

Hermione snapped the case file for the six folders closed, tucking it in to her bag as she and her assistant stopped in front of the abandoned safe house.

Hermione Granger had grown to dislike fieldwork, but never this type of fieldwork. The paper in her front pocket sat there waiting to pull out for the thousandth time, already covered in oil stands from her fingers. It was a list of names. Members of the Order of the Phoenix who went missing during the war.

The member she was looking for, the one whose lead she'd garnered only hours ago, had been head of communication: Lee Jorden.

There's a reason why Lee Jorden was considered Fred and George Weasley's best friend. The young man was clever. Codes he'd designed and used to hide their most recent locations and activities were complicated, and impossible to break, without the specific key picked to go along with them.

Fred had stumbled upon the solution. Weary and grief stricken, he'd nearly torn Hermione's head off when she'd asked him, again, to go over Lee's notes with her. It had been written in Wizard Wheezes disappearing ink, an ink that could only be unveiled when black, normal ink was spilled upon it. Fred had discovered Lee's secret key, scribbled, near illegible but whole, in the folds of one of the documents.

It had still taken a maddening three days, even with the finding, to go through all the papers to find that dates on Lee's notes, matched with Fred's findings, uncovered the last known location of Lee Jorden and Remus Lupin.

Numberland.

During the War, the Order had many bases around the world. Often times, the safe houses were little more than inconspicuous shacks with safeguards, and detouring spells placed on them so that should anyone wander too closely, they would change their mind about going to such a place. Still, nothing truly prepared Hermione for the hovel that she and her assistant had come upon. The house was hardly suitable for Order members. There was little radio reception, magical or muggle, and the floor boards were missing in places, leaving holes that one did not want in a place of potential warfare.

Nevertheless, knowing that this rundown place had been a prepared haven for Lee Jorden and other Order members to travel through, meant that the traps left at the front and back door would have been suspicious if they'd been absent. Hermione herself took the upstairs bedrooms. The hidden compartments and fake wall in one room were expected and the rudimentary radio with spare parts simply needed. Standard set up for Lee, but there was no personal touch.

Fred said Lee traveled with pictures of his mother, and that before each session, he would pull it out and set it up. There were no discarded jackets or miscellaneous items left about. Remus, she knew, had always traveled while wearing three or so coats, the man was practically allergic to the cold.

Yet there was no memento of either man in the building.

Hermione knew, of course, that the radio broadcast planned for that night had never occurred. Tonks had suspected right from that point that something terrible had to have happened. With the war and lack of location though, the Order not been able to follow up with Ramus and Lee. Everyone involved though, had assumed that both men had at least made it to the house. It was widely known among the Order that both men had been traveling from two very different locations and shouldn't have met up until they'd made it here, to the safe haven that neither appeared to have managed to get to.

Hermione stepped out of an upstairs bedroom, her mind boggled by the possibilities. If Lee and Ramus were taken separately, that meant that this town had been heavily guarded. Which meant that something about this town had been important to the Death Eaters.

Numberland was not considered a hot spot for Death Eater involvement. Or at least, if Hermione's suspicions were true, they hadn't known it was until this moment. She finished checking the floor, finding no further clues one way or another.

"What do you think happened to them?" Hermione's assistant, Hannah Abbot, asked as the woman peered around the room. The summer heat shined through the two dirty windows, leaving the place in patches of light and shadow.

"That's what we're here to find out," Hermione murmured.

Unfortunately, the safe house had turned up nothing. Almost as if Remus and Lee hadn't even made it to the rendezvous point. The entire situation raised a red flag for her and a small voice in the back of her head whispered why that might be. She quickly smashed it down. The same way she did every time she heard whispers of _his_ name in the streets or the Ministry.

"Let's go. We'll have better luck talking to the locals. We can start at the three apparition points and then move inwards. You take the north apparition point, I'll take the west and south. Show them the pictures. If they look like they recognize them then I want you to send up a signal. Understood?"

"I've been working on my patronus," Hannah said quietly.

"Have you managed it?" Hermione said, only half paying attention.

"Not yet, but I'm close."

"Then I fail to see how that affects us right now. Use the signal."

She didn't see the look of resentment on Hannah's face nor would she have cared if she had. Hermione was long passed being affected by such things. Once upon a time, she might have gone out of her way to make Hannah feel better, or to not have made her feel like she needed to be able to perform it in the first place. Now, she turned and walked down the street without looking back. Times had changed, and she had a job to do, missing people to find.

* * *

The town of Numberland was scarred. Hermione could see it in the way people shifted to keep their fronts to her, in the way they refused to openly stare, but kept her in their peripheral sight. They were friendly enough people, but weary in their actions. In their hearts.

The problem with showing each person in town pictures and asking questions, was that it attracted attention and rarely got results. Hermione though, was counting on it. As she asked her questions, she paid more attention to the people around her, the ones whose eyes lingered on her a little too long, the ones who avoided looking at her. In a town like this, so scarred and weary, it was telling.

When one man's eyes watched her as she went around the shop, Hermione purposefully left before asking everyone. As she left, she made sure to drop a tracker at her feet by the door, one that would attach to the very next person to leave.

She didn't look back as she made her way towards the local hotel and it was with the greatest satisfaction that her tracker had started to follow her. She drifted through the crowd, moving casually towards the alleys. She kept her wand handy, but hidden. It wasn't until her tracker was directly behind her that Hermione turned, and in one smooth motion, slammed the wide eyed man with a spell that rammed him up against the wall.

"We're going to have a nice long talk," Hermione said sweetly, even as the people around her scrambled away. Whispering. Gawking. Moving forward, as if to put a stop to her. She pulled out her Ministry badge, the emblem of a liaison to the Auror Department shining. Very suddenly, the crowd scattered.

"That's wha' I wanted anyhow," the Scottish accent yelped. "Yee left before I could say as much!"

"Mm hm," Hermione jerked the man forward, wand pointed at his forehead. "You'll forgive me for assuming."

"I don't know nothin' 'bout the dreds kid…" the man started.

"Lee Jorden," Hermione snapped.

"Whatever, I don't know him from squat, but I know the werewolf."

"Remus Lupin," Hermione supplied, gritting her teeth.

"Don't take offense," the man sighed. "I share his affliction."

She paused, taking in the familiar ten o clock shadow on his face and the old, well-worn jacket the man featured despite summer heat. Her heart clenched in sympathy. Her hand almost loosening. But Werewolves had worked for Voldemort and despite the unfairness of the mistreatment they went through, there was no guarantee that the man would be friendly towards a Ministry employee.

"Walk ahead of me," Hermione decided, "first Diner or café. We'll talk there. No funny business."

"I've never been accused of being funny," the man joked.

Hermione jerked her wand forward, making it clear just how funny he was, the man sighed.

* * *

They made their way without incident to a breakfast eatery. Being Mid-afternoon it wasn't too busy, but enough that their conversation wouldn't be of any interest to the Waiters or Waitresses.

The man taking their order looked about ready to protest, giving the man she'd sat down with a long steady look. Hermione had flashed her badge once more, dismissing him after ordering two coffees and a large order of the Lumberjack.

"I could smell it on him the moment he came into town," the man said, tapping his nose. "We're not dogs," he added, as if Hermione would flinch back at what he'd said. "We can't like… smell like a beast except during… you know. We got better sniffers than humans do though."

"You're human," Hermione reminded, trying her best not to let her compassion get the better of her. "But I understand what you mean."

The man sat up a little straighter at her words, looked a little less like a cornered animal and more like he was meant to be there.

"That's kind, Miss, you don't know how much… but yeah, I was keeping close to the West apparition point, like I always do, cause sometimes there's unfriendlies in area. He came slinking in like our kind do, hunched up and homeless like and with a weariness you can spot a mile away. I slunk up right next to him and warned him."

"Warned him about what?" Hermione asked.

The man tapped his fingers nervously on the table, looking around.

"I stay here 'cause I got a kid," he whispered. "Before I got bit, of course," as if Hermione would object to a werewolf having a kid, "and nobody knows but the lass I was with. I can't leave this place while they're stuck here. Can't take them with me cause of what I am. So I stay and keep watch and give what I can. But this place," he gestured outwards to indicate the town, "it was being watched constantly by them Deaths… er, that is to say, Death Eaters. They got a place nearby where they keep special folk they catch. Not just witches and wizards, but our kind and magical creatures too. Anything with even the tiniest bit of power, they kept in that place."

The man rubbed his nose, hushing when the waiter came back. Carefully placing a coffee in front of Hermione while slamming a half empty one in front of the man. He wrinkled his nose, but said nothing. Hermione was not so quiet about it though. She glared, taking her coffee and placing it in front of the man, snatching the half empty one up and setting it roughly down on the edge of the table, right in front of the waiter.

"I'm not paying for this, get a new one," she hissed. The waiter looked ready to protest, but her look must have been enough, because he scampered pretty fast after that. "You were saying?" Hermione added towards the man.

The werewolf nodded slowly, giving her a weak smile and sipping at the full cup of coffee.

"Anyways, I warned him, I did. Told him it was best if he moved on 'cause of them Deaths. He said he'd be gone as soon as he made sure his companion was safe too. Can't do nothing about good hearted people. Lost them right and left during the war 'cause they refused to help themselves."

The man took a large gulp of his coffee, staring into it for a long moment before looking up at Hermione. He opened his mouth but shut it. Taking another sip and swirling it around. She itched to make him talk, but felt he might clam up if she said anything now. Finally, he continued.

"So there he goes, walking right into town like I told him not to. He went, but he didn't come back. Heard nothing else from him. I figured he might have escaped, but it was more likely that they got him. Didn't hear the folk in town talk, one way or the other 'bout anyone being taken, but that had been the norm for a while. No one saying a god damn thing about anything."

' _Muggleborn,'_ her mind supplied, _'No one in the wizarding world, not even half-bloods, use muggle religious references.'_ Without her willing it, she felt herself relaxing, just the smallest bit. It was always easier to trust and communicate with muggleborns post war. To _know_ they had been in the same boat as her and to understand that there was nothing that would have put them behind the dark lord. Not even being a werewolf.

The waiter came back, brandishing a new cup of coffee in one hand and the large plate of food in the other. Hermione nodded approvingly, taking the cup from him and then holding her hand up when he tried to put it in front of her.

"I ordered it for him."

The waiter scowled, but she only raised her brows at him. The werewolf looked delighted, shooting her looks that were bewildered, but too thankful to outright question it. The plate was set down and the man immediately began to dig in.

She contemplated the new information. Excited and horrified all in one. The records showed no Death Eater strong holds nearby. Which meant that they'd missed this. There was a chance Lee and Remus were still alive, still being held captive. She'd have to call for back up immediately.

"What can you tell me about the Death Eater prison?" Hermione demanded.

The werewolf swallowed, his larger than normal canines showing as he licked his lips salt and pepper.

"It's no Hogwarts, but it is massive and well hidden. I was held there for a while during the war along with my pack."

"Pack?" Hermione jumped on. "You mean an entire group of werewolves?"

As far as she knew, werewolves were outcasts and loners. It was safer that way.

"Yeah, big one too. Led by Odin Sage, even had Spitfire traveling with us for a bit, after we all escaped."

"Spitfire?" Hermione asked.

At this the man grinned a true smile, it was the first display of pleasure she'd seen on the down trodden man. He put his utensils down and leaned forward like a child at Christmas.

"You don' know no Spitfire? Lass, he killed more Deaths than anyone I know. He's the _reason_ we managed to escape. He was no werewolf, but with how he fought? He might as well have been. He was the mastermind behind four battles against them Deaths. He helped numerous people escape the prisons and probably more I don' know about."

"What happened to him?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

The werewolf shrugged shoveling food into his mouth again. Hermione sipped at her coffee as she waited, recognizing the desperate zealous way the man ate, the starvation written in the hallows of his cheeks.

"Spitfire helped many escape, but couldn't escape himself." The werewolf pointed to his neck. "They planted a nasty little bugger here. A curse that could track him no matter where he went. He escaped, sure, but they always found him. It was why he left the pack in the first place, to lead them Deaths away from them. Never managed to stay out of their hands for more than a few spare weeks here and there. Couldn't go home for fear of leading the Deaths to his loved ones. Couldn't send word 'cause he had no wand. No means to get one. I haven't heard nothin' about the lad in months. One way or another. Figure they finally put him down."

"What about the prison itself?" Hermione asked. "You think he might still be there, locked up?"

' _With Lee and Remus.'_

The man shrugged.

"Anything's possible. I ain't heard or seen none of them Deaths skulking around here though. They normally stop off for supplies, but there ain't been nothin' from them. I don't see why they'd keep prisoners alive, and if they abandoned the prisoners then it's been far too long. They're all starved to death by now or from lack of water. Or from _the_ water."

" _The_ water?" Hermione asked.

"Flooding. There are plenty of cells on the upper levels. Mostly for magical creatures and such. The pack was kept there. Greyback would be trying to convince us to join the dark one every fortnight or so. Thought he was making fair arguments, he did, but our pack was mostly made up of mudbloods, you know? Had a bit more reason to be against 'the cause' than most. Besides, I know of at least one of us who'd been turned by the bastard himself."

Hermione nodded as the man swallowed hard, seeming to get his thoughts into order.

"Now, on the ground level, there were cells built into the floors. Are, I guess. Right into the caves beneath the castle. They flood like clockwork. Them Deaths used it to torture their political prisoners. Get information. Make them fold. There was an old muggle man they kept down there for fun though. Just because the stubborn bastard never died no matter how long he was kept down there. Survived Merlin knows how many floodings."

Nausea coursed through her lower stomach, threatening to pour still hot coffee from its depths and onto the table. Deep breaths kept it down and at bay though.

"What can you tell me about where this place is located?"

"Dersewel?" The werewolf grimaced. "It's about fifteen clicks outside of town. By the sea. Powerful magic protects its location though. We'll not be getting there even if I were to take you myself. Lose our way before getting within three miles of the place."

Dersewel wasn't on the list of Death Eater prisons. Hermione fiddled with her wand as she considered her options, but in the end it wasn't much of a decision at all.

"I can guarantee you a job if you help the Auror teams find the general location of the place," Hermione reassured him. "It would be well paid. You could send your family plenty with the job, though you would have to relocate."

That got the man's attention.

"I'd sell my soul for that. Question being, why you offering?" the man said slowly, eyeing her as if she were a dementor spawn come to take him away.

"You've gotten rather lucky," Hermione admitted. "Remus Lupin, the werewolf you tried to help? He was as dear friend of mine and the husband of the head of the Auror department. Both she and I are indebted to you and it would be the least we could do, especially if you chose to help in this matter."

The man's mouth opened in an 'oh' as he stared at Hermione.

"Someone willingly married a werewolf?" He whispered.

Hermione reached across the table to take the man's hand.

"They have a son too," she told him. "An adorable little boy who means the world to them both. He's my godson."

The man hesitantly squeezed her hand, as if afraid she'd shy back from his touch. When Hermione didn't, the man cleared his throat.

"I'll help you. More than happy to. I… I don't think you'll find anything you like in that place. It was… is a place of misery and death. They made sure of it."

"I know," Hermione told him, "but I also know that if I give up and stop searching for those missing in the war then there is no chance that I'll ever find out what happened to them at all. They were my friends. Whether they are there or not, whether they are alive or not, I want to be able to say that I didn't abandon them. If there is even the smallest possibility, then I'm going to take it."

"How many others are you looking for?" the man asked her.

"Thousands are still considered 'Missing,' according to the reports on my desk, but I'm not quite crazy enough to seek out all of those," Hermione sighed, her own weariness seeping in at this admittance. "There was a group I belonged to in the war called the Order of the Phoenix, six members were never found. Remus Lupin, Lee Jorden, Hestia Jones, Rubeus Hagrid, Fleur Dela- Weasley, and…"

Her breath caught on the last name. All six members were important to her. Her old Professor. The twin's best friend. The tough Auror. Her good friend. Bill's wife. But _he_ had been her best friend. The man she loved. The one she'd wanted to be with for the rest of her life.

"…and Ron Weasley."

She was not Tonks. She would not accept that she would never know. She would not accept that Ron was dead or worse and do _nothing_. She would tear the earth apart and fry it on a pan before giving up. Seeing Tonks do so had nearly broken her.

So she'd resolved herself. She would look for all of them. She would search everywhere until she found all six of her friends. If the world wanted to accept their death's then let them. Hermione Granger would not.

She couldn't.

She wouldn't be able to live with herself. Harry helped, but Harry was barely coping himself. Ron was… Ron was everything to them. If he was somewhere out there… alone and hurt, locked up in a cell, dying, and she gave up on him? Left him to rot without ever searching for him?

She would sooner kill herself.

"I'm not sure how much help I can be to you," the werewolf said slowly, "but I sure can try my best at it. Names Thomas Cornish, former beta of Odin's pack, now your new…?"

"Consultant for cases concerning the well-being of magical creatures, half-breeds, and war veterans," Hermione announced.

Thomas blinked at her.

"Did you just make that up off the top of your head?"

"Not at all," Hermione smiled, "You wouldn't believe how difficult it's been to find someone willing to work in that position. I've had it open for three months now."

"Name and all?"

"One of missing Order Members we're looking for always told me that my names for things were ridiculous and long winded."

"If they're accurate, hardly matters."

Hermione pressed her lips together

"He loved to argue with me. Would sometimes make fun just for the sake of aggravating me," Hermione said softly, thinking of red hair and blue eyes, the half grin that was always on his lips. He never showed his full teeth when he smiled. Harry did, he gave small shy things that showed off all of his teeth for the briefest of moments before they disappeared. Ron's lasted forever though, sometimes he talked with that half grin on his face the whole time.

"You seem the type to like the fight though," Thomas pointed out, hesitantly as Hermione's voice faded out.

"We both loved to argue. We had trouble seeing the line though and we we're both ruthless enough to purposefully cross it sometimes."

"Sounds like a whirlwind of a romance," Thomas murmured.

Hermione made a sound of agreement, before remembering that Hannah was still about. She took a deep breath, bringing to mind Harry asleep on the couch, Crookshanks asleep in his lap. Peaceful in sleep. All she had left of her world. She pointed her wand forward and an otter sprang forth. She murmured her message and it sprinted away to retrieve the woman.

"The check."

The waiter had come back. This time with the Owner of the establishment standing behind him. Hermione bristled, but decided this fight wasn't the one she wanted to have today. She was much more concerned about one that would take place by the sea. A dark master more than likely hiding away inside it, watching over his castle… his kingdom. A Kingdom by the Sea.

"Come on, Thomas, we have our Lenore to find."

"I thought we we're looking for a Lupin?"

"And a Lee, but they're all the same in this instance. Tell me more about this prison.


	5. Chapter 3: Gaping Hole

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Chapter 3: The Gaping Hole

For the official interview with the Death Eater Rebastan Lestrange, Harry was required to have a partner in the room, and a small scribenda ball recording the session. While other Death Eater's paced their cells, Rebastan never seemed concerned or even aware that he was, in fact, incarcerated. In all his arrogant glory, he sat in his chair, leaned back and casual, despite the chains that kept his hands and feet locked in place.

It was his eyes that bothered Harry the most though. They had a look of McGonagall facing down Umbridge, of Dumbledore withholding information from you, of Snape in the prongs of victory. Chains or not, Rebastan expected this interrogation to go his way, Harry's central concern as he sat down was figuring out what his goal was. To rile Harry up? To lead them on a wild goose chase of Ron's whereabouts? To escape?

"If it isn't Voldemort's righthand man, styled in a nice package for us?" Harry winced as Isac McLaggan dragged the chair to him, sitting in it backwards and wearing a smirk that didn't fit the situation or the prisoner. Harry sat down stiffly, gritting his teeth.

"Bellatrix was his right hand," Rebastan said smoothly, eyeing McLaggen as if he were a particularly stupid sort of ruffian one met in a bar. "I was his strategist. I coordinated attacks against those of inferior magic and sorted out those bloodtraitors who saw fit to stand against their natural right."

"You killed half-bloods and muggleborns, you mean," McLaggen drawled, hatred bubbling up in his words. "You hunted down purebloods. Every blood. Despite your claims to protect those 'like you' and you did so with glee."

"Noticed the skip in Bellatrix's step, did you? She did enjoy her… duties. As did my brother." At these words Rebastan leaned forward. "As you seem to be enjoying yours, McLaggan, yet you claim superiority? We're not so different. You and me."

Harry put a hand on McLaggan's arm as the man's fury looked ready to leap across the table. Rebastan was playing with them. With ease.

"We're not here to question motives," Harry reminded. "You've been spewing that long before either of us were born." Uncle of Cormac he might be, but Isac was only five or six years older than Harry. The much younger brother of Nathaniel McLaggan, Cormac's father. "What we are here to do is bargain."

"From what the boys say, it's not much of a bargain," Rebastan dismissed.

"No freedom, no life," Harry agreed, "but you get to pick the way you die. If you choose not to bargain then your victims get to vote. Burning. Soul removal. Cruciatus and then suicide via imperius. The Veil…" Harry gestured outwards with a vicious grin. "At least the last, we don't know that it hurts."

"Delightful."

"Isn't it? But choosing at least garners you the illusion that you have control. You've harmed far too many people to deserve anything better than that."

The total fall of the government had brought this about and Harry couldn't bring himself to feel any pity or even mercy for those who were executed. The memory pensive was fool proof trial and error and every prisoner would be given one. No innocents would be receiving these deaths. No cells would be full by the end of it. All would either be proven guilty and executed or proved innocent and freed.

"If you decide that you don't want to cooperate today, then I will personally see to it that you are tortured to death. There isn't a person working in Great Britain right now who would deny me my request," Harry continued. "If you choose to give us the information we desire… perhaps I'll let you be dumped into the Veil instead."

Rebastan pretended to consider, though Harry knew the man had already decided on his actions before ever being brought up to the room. He tensed as Rebastan's grin turned savage.

"Tell me, what sort of death will you hand out to Ronald Weasley?" Rebastan asked casually. "Will you torture him? Or perhaps his victims will vote to burn him? How will you vote McLaggan?"

"What?" Isac's brow furrowed. "Why would I…"

"He was the Death Eater who killed your nephew."

* * *

Aiden Grey and Perkins were forced to step in twice. Once to stop Isac McLaggan from strangling Rebastan Lestrange who, despite a blossoming bruise along his jaw and a swiftly swelling eye, appeared no worse for wear. It wasn't long after they'd been removed from the room that McLaggen had started muttering about 'skinning Weasley alive.' At which point Aurors Grey and Perkins had been forced to intervene _again_ by separating Harry from McLaggen.

Which had led to not only their interrogation privileges being temporarily revoked, but had nearly brought them both to Tonks office for suspension. They'd barely escaped. Soon, Isac, being a McLaggen, had heatedly spread information about Ron's 'involvement' in his nephew's death.

No evidence.

No real poof.

Just the word of a Death Eater.

Spread around as if it were proof by a highly respected Auror.

That's all there ever had been concerning Ron Weasley. No real proof. Just the sadistic, pleased words of one Death Eater after another. It had started three months after Ron had left. Disappearing into the night as if he never existed. Then the rumors. Ron spotted wearing the familiar Death Eater cloak and mask. Killing. Hunting. Acting as one of them.

"You should take Hermione out tonight," Ron said, sitting next to him just outside of Tonks office. "Get away from all of this. Go somewhere out in the country. A nice little cottage restaurant or something."

Across from them, Isac scowled down at the floor.

"Drag her away from her work. She needs a break from being stuck in the office. You need a break from all this shit."

"Go away," Harry muttered.

"Excuse me?" hissed Isac, already in a foul mood.

"My migraine," Harry snapped.

When he looked back up, Ron was gone. For the briefest of moments, he felt regret, but then he was being dragged into the office by an annoyed Tonks and Isac was shooting him a look of almost sympathy.

* * *

Harry had yet to tell Hermione he'd turned into a schizophrenic lunatic. Caught was the eventuality. Harry _knew_ he was going to end up in some magical version of an insane asylum sooner or later and was simply trying his damn hardest to make it the very far later.

It didn't help that Ron, illusion or not, was still very much Ron. If it had been Voldemort appearing to him or Dumbledore or any number of people, Harry wouldn't have thought twice about asking for help or admitting he needed to see a Mind Healer. Well, alright, asking Hermione for help, at least.

But this was Ron. His missing traitor of a best friend who Harry both hated and missed like crazy. Literally. He missed Ron so much he'd lost his mind. Apparently. He knew it wasn't healthy or safe to listen to and talk back to the voice in his head, but having Ron, even in this crazy, fucked up manner, was better than the months of agonizing silence and loneliness.

If he asked for help and they actually fixed the problem of his mental state then there was a very good chance that he would never hear or seen Ron ever again. Because Ron was most likely dead somewhere, body broken and mind having been destroyed by spells trying to break into it. Having clearly succeeded in breaking into it, as it were, as evidenced by Voldemort's knowledge.

He'd cracked even before the war ended. He'd lost his marbles in the middle of a battlefield, of all places. Which, really, made perfect sense. He'd spent months staring at the Marauder's map, at first dreading seeing Ron's name coming across it, and then pleading with his name to be there. Just so Harry could know what had happened to him. He'd started in on the same damn habit he'd been so annoyed by Ron for; listening in to the radio for any hint of his best friend, his family.

November of 1998, on a battlefield, almost one year after Ron disappeared, found Harry at the end of his ropes. About to give up. His surrogate father, Arthur Weasley, dead not three feet from him. The Death of Bill and disappearance of Fleur heavy in the air. The terror of knowing Ron was probably dead as well. Hermione unconscious and bleeding yards behind him, unable to get to her by a barrier where the Order and DA had been ambushed, separated, and then massacred.

Death Eaters everywhere.

Voldemort standing over McGonagall's corpse.

It was this place that Harry found his hope again even at the cost of his mind.

He'd noticed it early on in his duel against two Death Eaters and a Snatcher. The way the Snatcher, Scabior, seemed to be struck by some unknown source. The way he kept reaching in aggravation at his neck, grabbing at his head as if it hurt. The way he staggered even though Harry hadn't thrown a curse his way. He'd known something was up, just not what. Then Scabior had done the oddest thing. He'd turned his wand on the Death Eaters and let fly a series of deadly curses. Three hit, though two were all that were necessary, and then the man had turned his wand on himself and fired.

Imperius, but by who Harry had not the foggiest. He appreciated it though. He'd almost left then, but the Voice had started. A familiar voice that would have paused his step no matter the danger. Harry whirled around. Searching for the owner of the voice. Only the enemy, baring down on him.

"Ron!" Harry roared.

When he got his hands on that bastard, he was never gonna let him out of his sights again, not even to take a piss. Then _it_ happened. A pull. He found his feet sliding towards Scabior of their own mindset. The pull was familiar, a gentle tugging that felt part fondness, part protective. A tiny light flickered out of the darkness of dusk. Harry bent down and his hand curled around a small red and blue stone necklace. It was warm to the touch, the stone itself a sharp cobalt blue, with fire like light flickering inside.

It was in his hands before he had time to think, to consider if it might be a dark object. He was clutching it to his chest, warmth and fondness flowing from it as Harry dodged a spell. It commanded him to put it in his pocket and Harry did so.

"Behind you!" Harry brought a shield up without thought, trusting without hesitation in _that_ voice. A spell rebounded off the shield. Harry turned to see three Death Eaters marching towards him, wands raised. Ron was here. He couldn't see him, but Ron was here!

Ron had his back.

A fire burned in his chest as he continued fighting, renewed, invigorated. Looking around for Ron, not seeing him. But the red head was watching his back. Every time a Snatcher or Death Eater began to sneak up on him, Ron was there to warn him.

When there was no more, Harry turned full circle.

"Ron!"

There was a manic air about him. Wild. Crazed.

"Ron!"

"Harry!" The voice wasn't Ron's though. Harry turned to see Neville, who was looking around with searching eyes as well. "Did you see him? Is he here?"

"I heard him," Harry confirmed. "There were Death Eaters sneaking up on me and he warned me about them."

"Let's get to the others. We can do a sweep after we've made sure the others are safe," Neville told him.

Harry nodded. They both kept a close look out for the red head. Entirely too hopeful, too desperate for them to look casual. The rumors had been flying. Safe houses attacked that no one outside of the Order knew about. Voldemort had hidden Nagina and Ravenclaws Diadem away, the last of the Hocruxes. Harry suspected that somehow, Voldemort knew the plan, knew they were on to him.

Neither of them believed Ron capable of betraying them… but if they'd used legimacy enough, if they'd used veriteserum… Harry felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it. The anger at Ron for leaving them had faded long ago, replaced with an aching need to see him again, to make sure he was _safe._

Eventually, as what was left of the Order and those fighting on the side of the light had mostly escaped, Harry, Hermione and the Weasley's went to gather up Arthur Weasley's body. Fred and George were silent. Ginny a hiccupping mess. Percy, for once, was the loudest. He couldn't seem to stop screaming.

No Ron though.

They searched and searched until his legs were lead. Until lifting each foot was like trying to sludge through a swamp. He looked until every part of his body ached and blood slipped from his crack, sliced fingers.

"He's not here, Harry," Neville said softly, pulling him gently away.

"I heard him," Harry croaked. "I _heard_ him."

"Maybe you did. Maybe they caught him. Maybe he doesn't want to be found." Neville hesitated. "Maybe the reason you could hear him, but not see him was because he was wearing a mask."

Harry stared at Neville in rage at the suggestion. The other Gryffindor held up his hand though, stalling his fury.

"There could be a legitimate reason. Maybe that was the only way to escape. To wear a mask and head out with the group going to battle. He could know the rumors and not want to reinforce them. For all we know, he could pop up and tell us all about his brilliant escape at any moment now." Neville hesitated, then added. "Maybe they used imperius on him and he's too ashamed to face us. You know how he is."

Harry gave a tired sigh.

"Maybe."

That was how it had begun. Of course, Harry hadn't realized he'd lost his mind until six or seven weeks later during the final battle. Voldemort bearing down on him and all hope lost, Ron had just… appeared by his side. Unaffected by the explosions and he noise, by the death and destruction, Ron had sat kneeled down and urged him up.

"No, no, you aren't dead!"

Harry had feared it more than anything before, but Ron had shaken his head.

"Not yet. You need to get up, Harry, get up and fight! Don't let old snake face win."

"I don't think…"

"Don't think then. Just act. Let me help you."

"Okay."

Warmth and rage in equal measures enveloped him. Harry picked up his wand, Ron beside him, and forced himself to his feet. As Lord Voldemort raised his wand and shouted out the killing curse, Harry shouted the spell he trusted more than anything else. A spell he hadn't been able to perform since his best friend disappeared a year ago.

"Expecto Patronum!"

As Voldemort was torn apart, Ron beamed at him with pride, nodding his head for Harry to look behind him. Harry turned just in time to catch Hermione as the woman threw herself at him. Harry caught her, swept her up and clutched at every inch of her. Standing behind Hermione Granger, the entirety of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's Army, and every able body on the lights side stood waiting.

Harry turned to urge Ron to join him, but he was gone.

* * *

He wasn't suspended for his actions in the interview room, at least, Tonks did end up sending him home. Which was fine by Harry. There would be no cottage out in the country though. Harry cooked dinner. A little burnt. A little too salty. But when Hermione came through the door, overly exhausted and weary, she gave him a weak, but sincere smile.

The weekend rolled around faster than either of them expected.

Sunday dinners at the Weasley's were not requests. There was no, 'if you're not too busy' or 'if you have time.' Since the end of the war, Sunday dinners with his adoptive family were expected things.

Molly Weasley needed her children to come home. All of them. Even Percy, notorious in the past for his distance, never missed a Sunday dinner. The one time he had, it had caused their mum to have a panic attack. The destruction of the Weasley family clock near the end of the war had taken its toll. It had been her handicap and without it there was a necessity to fill the void of worrying hands.

There had been nothing to fill those hands though.

So it had taken her mind instead.

Losing Arthur and three of her boys had been too devastating. Arthur, Bill, Charlie and Ron's chairs had all been removed to keep her eyes from straying to them. No empty chairs. Ever. Only as many as the people inside the house. Always.

The few times Harry had been forced to go out of the country for work, he'd had to sit her down and explain it to her a few times. Harry had to make the connection, that he wouldn't be able to attend, but he was fine.

She'd been upset. Very upset the entirety of dinner, even though they'd removed the chair and reassured her several times that she could write Harry whenever she wanted. That he was fine.

So on Sunday he and Hermione arrived along with the rest of the family. Ginny gave him a wobbly smile from her place setting up the table. The twins joke shop took up a great deal of their time and made it almost impossible for them to help her with taking care of Molly. Percy, surprisingly, had stepped up to the occasion. More than anyone else, Percy allowed Ginny time to unwind and get away from the Burrow. Still, at the end of the day, it was Ginny who helped Molly through her panic attacks and deep depression. She made sure her mother ate and got out of bed.

Harry and Hermione tried to help when they could, but there was so much that needed to be taken care of at the Ministry that neither of them had time to sleep none the less go over and help Ginny.

It didn't help that Harry and Hermione, just the two of them, was a gabbing wound in the chest, reminding everyone of who was missing. Molly was pretty much the only mother figure in Harry's life. Molly treated him like a son and that hadn't changed when she'd heard the news that Ron had left and disappeared nor when the rumors started and the worst was believed.

But just because she viewed Harry as a son didn't mean that it hurt her any less to have lost her child. So Harry and Hermione came for Sunday dinners and left Sunday nights. They provided what they could, but understood the gaping hole that had been left behind. Mostly because it was their gaping hole too.

It didn't help matters that the family was divided on the matter. Ginny and Fred believed Ron had betrayed them, or at least, that he'd been tortured and broken and had eventually given the information to Death Eaters. They could forgive that, if not for the consequences that the reveal of information had led to Bill and Charlie's deaths, to the disappearance and most likely murder of Fleur, to the loss of several battles and safe houses. They couldn't forgive the consequences of Ron being broken.

George, for the first time in forever, firmly disagreed with Fred and held that it wasn't Ron's fault if they'd tortured the information from him. None of them had faced what Ron had faced and blaming their 'dead' brother was worse than unforgivable.

None of them believed Ron was still alive.

Harry wouldn't believe anything until he saw the body. For him, Ron was still hanging in there, in some way. Even if his crazy, schizophrenic illusion hinted otherwise. That was one thing about the Burrow. Ron _never_ showed up while Harry was there. He both loved and hated this fact and was curious as to the answer of why. Ron was family. When Ron was around, Harry didn't feel alone. He didn't feel as if everything was hopeless. The burrow sort of made him feel that way too, so maybe he was more stable inside the house.

Harry walked over to Ginny, giving her a squeeze around the shoulders. She leaned against him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder and holding back a sniffle in the form of a deep strangled breath.

"How's she been?" he asked.

"She keeps walking into the kitchen and insisting it's not her house. I keep trying to tell her the old kitchen was blown up, but she doesn't remember or won't. Keeps looking around for that blasted clock."

The new kitchen was three times as large. Courtesy of the twin's work. All the things Molly Weasley could possible want in a kitchen had been added. An expansive island. A large family dinner table. Plenty of counter space and a large window facing the backyard that had a reading nook under it. It was beautiful and perfect for the family's matriarch.

But the family matriarch was no longer who she'd been. She was a fragile old woman who'd lost her children and her husband within months of each other. There was almost no red left in her hair. She'd aged ten years over night with deep wrinkles and a new scar that crossed her right temple, leaving a place where no hair would grow.

The curse that had blown up before her had only partially hit her. The full brunt of the attack had been taken by Charlie Weasley. The man using the last moments of his life to shield his mother with his own body.

"It's a nice day outside," Harry said, looking out the window, "why don't we set up dinner in the garden? I bet there's still lanterns in the closet from Christmas that we can levitate above the table. If we start now, we can have it done before everyone arrives."

"She'd like that."

The work took less time than either of them expected. Percy showed up half way through their attempts at shrinking the table and had it down to the size of a thumb nail within seconds. He forgot, sometimes, that while Fred and George were brilliant at creating products and inventing spells, Percy was a great wizard in his own right. Transfiguration, something that no one else in the Weasley family cared too much for, was the be speckled man's greatest skill.

To their surprised looks, Percy sighed.

"All you have to do is ask," the man said. Once outside Percy had returned the table to its original size, complete with silver ware, candles, and pumpkin juice. Hermione joined them soon after, having kept Mrs. Weasley busy with Ministry gossip and a brand new set of all the latest magazines for the woman. Altered and edited of all mentions of the war.

"So what _have_ you two been working on at the Ministry?" Ginny asked as she set up the food.

Harry shrugged, not wanting to talk about Rebastan or the Death Eater Safe House failure, especially the deluminator.

"I've made a lot of headway with a few of my cases, actually," Hermione announced, she paused and gave Ginny a considering look. Harry grimaced, knowing that whatever it was that was the 'headway' most likely had to do with the Order. Hermione wouldn't' hesitate otherwise. "I followed up on a lead and came across another Death Eater prison."

Harry's head snapped up. He hadn't heard of that. There hadn't been any news at all.

"When was this?" He asked.

Ginny too had paused, the bowl of potato salad halfway to the table.

"Yesterday. Three teams of Aurors have been making their way through the prison for the past 48 hours. I figured I'd tell you if they came up with anything," Hermione said hurriedly. "It's just… I was there for a few hours yesterday and its… there's a lot of bodies that need to be identified. No one's been found alive yet."

"Where's this located?" Harry asked.

"Numberland. It's far out of the way of any other Prison we've come across yet and there are no records anywhere of it existing."

Ginny set the Potato salad down. She started to fiddle with a few of the forks on the table, playing casual.

"You think they'll find anything?" She asked.

 _'Anyone?'_

"I think we'll find a lot. I just don't know what it will be," Hermione cautioned.

Ginny gave a sharp nod, marching into the house.

Now that she was no longer there, Harry turned to Hermione.

"Just how many bodies are we talking?" He asked.

Hermione shook her head.

"Too many. All species. Piles of them. Left to rot. I couldn't get near the place without having a warding spell around my face to protect me from the stench and diseases. It was horrible."

Harry nodded.

"What lead were you following?"

"It was the last place Lupin and Lee were," was her quiet reply.

A lump formed in his throat. The summer heat suddenly felt too humid, like the air was choking him. He blinked hard and hid his fists behind him.

"Let's not say anything to Fred or George yet," Harry said.

Losing Lee had been hard on them. Fred had admitted that they'd thought Lee was safe. What with staying hidden and out of the more physical action of the other Order members. The twins had convinced Lee that his radio station was too important for Lee to step away from. So many people depended on him for information. It was best to leave the more dangerous missions to the other Order members because no one knew the codes and the radio waves like Lee. They'd be lost without him.

And then they had lost him anyways. The safest job in the Order and their best friend had still been taken from them. It had been a rude awakening for them. That no matter what a person was doing, no matter how small or how safe it may seem, war took all as victims.

Lee had been the first for them.

Then Charlie and Bill had died.

Then Arthur.

Fred had started to drink and George had stopped talking. It had taken months to ween one off of alcohol and to coax the other out of silence. In the end, only George's disapproval of the drinking and Fred's angry war against George's silence had gotten them to stop. To get the spark back enough to realize they'd almost died themselves.

"I wouldn't do that to them," Hermione said softly. "Not without knowing for absolute sure whether Lee was there or not. And not now, when we've finally got them back."

"Got who back?" Fred called, eyeing the lanterns appreciatively.

"Watermelon, of course, just came back in season," Harry answered, picking up a bowl of freshly cut pieces. "Straight from your mother's garden and your sisters love."

"Then its spoiled, is it?" George joked.

"Oh, how beautiful!" Molly Weasley declared, stepping out into the backyard. Ginny guided her, followed swiftly by Percy. "Oh, this is marvelous. And such a perfect night." Then Molly Weasley looked around in confusion, looking as if she were counting the chairs. "Aren't we missing a few?"

Harry's smile was strained as he helped Ginny guide his surrogate mum to the table.

"No, everyone's here."


	6. Chapter 4: Who is Spitfire?

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter 4: Who is Spitfire?

"He's good in bed, you know," Bellatrix circled, wand raised and a playful, twisted smirk on her face. "Well, you wouldn't know, would you? He played around with your feelings, but was never serious. You two never did anything at all."

She tried to push the taunt out of her mind. She focused only on the other woman's wand movements. The telling way she stepped. The direction of her hands. Was it going to be a jab? A slash? A downward arc? An upward lift?

Bellatrix Lestrange was an unpredictable opponent. She moved like a dancer, changing course in her movements as if the music coordinating her was wild and theatric. Hermione couldn't have been paired with a worse opponent than if it was Luna Lovegood. She needed a pattern, could spot one from a thousand yards, but with an opponent who didn't know what they themselves were going to do until the last second, it was impossible to work out.

"Little Ronnie was so good to me," Bellatrix purred.

Hermione shot out a cutting curse, slashing upwards then across. Spell after spell, but there was only pleased, high pitched laughter.

"If you touched him…" Hermione hissed.

"Oh, sweetie," Beatrice twirled her wand, casting barriers as if they were extensions of herself, confident and powerful in her spell work. "I did so much more than simply touch."

Hermione jabbed her wand, forward, then brought it down, intending to rip the woman's lungs from her body. The spell hit the ground instead, causing it to break the concrete they stood on. Beatrice danced away, her black robes flowing around her, hair a mess of grey and black curls.

Hermione pulled up a barrier just in time. Not even seeing the curse sent he way, but knowing it would come. Her barrier cracked then splintered to the ground. She threw up another one. Another curse hit a split second later. She reinforced. It cracked anyways.

"Have you ever traced those lovely scars of his? The ones that line his arms and back? They're so pretty," Bellatrix purred. For the first time, ever, Hermione agreed with Ron in his hatred of cats. "What makes them silver though, I wonder, do you know?"

Hermione stepped back, bringing her wand down in a sideways arc, yellow canaries diving out of her wand, attacking from all directions. Bellatrix swatted them away though, smiling, all dimples and charm.

This was a game to her. Not a duel. Hermione was a distraction, an entertainment, not a worthy opponent. She was being toyed with. She felt inadequate in this duel. With this woman who fought with grace and skill where Hermione was stiff and cautious. With this woman who held Ron prisoner somewhere. Had _played_ with himin ways Hermione knew would hurt Ron for years.

"Is he still alive?" Hermione asked the monster. Because this was no woman. Beatrice was a beast in human skin. Second only to Voldemort himself in cruelty and horrors wrought. The Death Eater twisted truths. She knew she lied about what happened, what was happening to Ron, at least, in Ron's reaction to it.

Ron would never be willing. Never. She knew these facts as well as she knew herself. Rumors and lies and deceit was all this monster had to offer. A means to unsettle Hermione. It was working. Even acknowledging the facts, they still unsettled her. Because this foul woman was familiar with Ron's body and that told a tale far more terrible than the lies Bellatrix tried to spout.

This Death Eater had traced Ron's scars.

This Death Eater had him in a position to force his clothes off.

This Death Eater had _hurt_ Hermione's Ron.

"Feeling betrayed?" Bellatrix asked, the woman casually flicked her wrist. A spell of black magic shot out. Hermione pulled up a bubble shield. Watching as the black magic whirled around her and tried to stab her in the back. The shield held though, a magic of deep magenta that wrapped around her entirely. Expect the worst. Be prepared for dirty tricks. That's what Tonks had taught her in their private lessons long into the night.

"Has the darling little Mudblood been abandoned?" Bellatrix cooed.

"Is. He. Alive?! Hermione hissed.

"Want to kill him?" Bellatrix asked, eager. "Want to make him pay for his transgressions against you? Does the pretty little bird want to murder the Mutt?"

There it was. The truth inside the lies. The name Mutt was muttered with such hatred, such malice. Hermione smirked, feeling calmer.

"He does have that tendency, doesn't he?" Hermione said casually. "To anger. So what is it that Ron did as your prisoner that could get under your skin? What did he do to cause such a vendetta against him? What has he done to unruffle the unrufflable Bellatrix?"

The Death Eater watched her carefully, there was a gleam in her eyes now, more calculating than before, less playful. Bellatrix knew she'd been caught, but was unwilling to fold.

"Did you think you could pit us against one another?" Hermione demanded. "Spin a line of lies that anyone who knows Ron would know is false? But what has he done, I wonder, to gain such attentions from Voldemort's personal whore?"

Another black spell shot out. Hermione double folded the bubble charm, but the sheer strength of Beatrice's spell left a large crack in her work.

"It does not change the facts though," Beatrice declared, her eyes intent upon Hermione. Glittering like Crookshanks when the cat had found his latest meal. "Does it? He still abandoned you. Left you despite how hard you screamed for him not to leave. I saw it all, I did, how much you love him. How it wasn't enough to keep him there. He left you and now my lord knows everything. We've brought down your safe houses and have destroyed the Order one by one. Your precious little Ronnie is still a Traitor."

Is.

Is.

Is.

Ron was still alive.

Saw.

She'd seen it. Ron hadn't told. She'd seen it. Legilimency. They'd forced their way into Ron's head. It hadn't been immediate either. Ron had been missing for months before the information was leaked. Ron had fought. Ron had fought hard.

Ron was still Ron.

She needed Bellatrix to tell her where. She needed the Death Eater to slip up just one more time. Hermione let the bubble charm drop. She dropped with it. Knees hitting concrete, wand aiming at the ground. With a desperate tug of her wand she transfigured cement into mud. Directly ahead of her, twenty feet of cement morphed, looking like a bog monster rising before everything from rubble to branches began to sink into the ground. Bellatrix made to move, to attack her, when her feet too sank into the mud, encasing her ankles. That's when Hermione struck. She reversed her work with a more assured flick of the wrist. Creating cement from mud. There was an audible crack as both of Bellatrix's ankles broke.

The Death Eater merely grunted, firing off black spells from her trapped spot. One thing could certainly be said about Bellatrix Lestrange, she was one tough bitch. Hermione parried and lunged, wielding her wand like a sword as she struck down curse after curse. Before _finally_ disarming Voldemort's right hand.

"It's over Bellatrix, tell me where you're keeping him," Hermione hissed, holding her wand out to Bellatrix's chin. She smiled, a dimpled thing that made youth out of age, before reaching into her pocket.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Hermione screamed.

But Bellatrix was too fast.

The dagger had already been turned to face the woman's own chest, the silver edge and in the next second it was shoved in naval deep. The spell hit her even as the first blood spilled. Freezing Bellatrix Lestrange's body and succeeding only in straightening the knife into her abdomen. The spell did little more than freeze the satisfied smile in place as the Death Eater succumbed to death. The full body bind hex, combined with feet trapped in cement, had temporarily made the corpse a statue.

It was Bellatrix Lestrange's death that she thought about on the muggle train to Manchester. There were other means of travel, faster, magical ways to get to the other side of England, but she had a great deal of paperwork that needed to be done and doing such work while the countryside rolled by was much more pleasant than spending the day in the office and then key porting.

The female Death Eater's final words reminded her very much of this case. The information given frustrating, vomit inducing, but more than that… useless. All of the papers she received from the Investigation crews stated the same thing; someone had destroyed all evidence that Death Eaters ran the place except the bodies themselves, which were so waterlogged in a submerged set of caves that they were, essentially, erased of useable evidence. The bodies were beyond identification, but Hermione had spent the last few years feeding on the scraps of hope available to her. Lupin, Lee, Ron, the other missing Order Members, they weren't down there. At least, until Hermione had a body in front of her and an expert to say 'yes, this is your friend,' then they were alive and waiting for rescue.

* * *

Across from her, Thomas fiddled in his seat. Clean clothes and a shower making the werewolf appear much younger than Hermione had first pegged him. The man had confirmed that all three Lestrange's were very active at the Dersewel prison and it left a fluttering in her stomach. A weak-kneed hope that despite the water damage and destroyed evidence, there would be some trace of Ron in all of this mess. The man who had somehow garnered the wrath of the most notorious of the Death Eaters. The man she loved.

There was an ache that never went away that throbbed in sync with a remembered smile and cracked in the absence of it. Anger at him for leaving. Devastating fury that he'd never come back. Betrayal, no matter how small, that he'd let _them_ break him. That they'd gotten all their plans from him and it had put so many people in danger. Rage that Ron had made her choose between the two men she loved most in the world, that he'd made her chose following Dumbledore's plan or coming with him, that he'd made her prioritize her best friends.

Guilt over not going with him. Of not being there when Ron needed her most. Perhaps there was something she could have done, someway her presence could have changed the situation so that Ron wasn't captured. Some decision that might have led to escape rather than what had happened.

Despair at his absence. The ever-present hole that was between her and Harry. The loneliness and quiet that consumed their lives without Ron in it. To not have his easy going grin or his quiet, awkward reassurances. To not have his warmth and protectiveness hovering about and pushing them away all at once. Ron's need to be close, to be there, yet to crave independence, to be able to stand on his own. She missed that. His poorly expressed, complicated overflowing teaspoon.

And the maddening lack of knowledge of what happened. Not knowing when Ron was taken or how or by who… knowing nothing about what had taken place. The lingering hope that somewhere out there, Ron had escaped and was alive.

The cocktail of emotions left her head swimming. It left all four chambers of her heart smashing against each other as they tried to decide which way to pump her blood. More than anything though was one thought.

It had been eight months since the end of the war. If Ron had survived, if he'd escaped, then why hadn't he come back? There was much Hermione could forgive… with time. Refusing to return, not sending them a message, or avoiding them was one thing she wouldn't be able to though. She couldn't imagine Ron doing that to them.

"It's been a while since I left the pack," Thomas interrupted her thoughts. "I don't know how receptive they'll be to seeing me again."

Hermione put down the paperwork she hadn't been doing anyways.

"You left on good terms though, right? They understood why you couldn't leave the area."

"That doesn't mean they liked it. I wasn't an omega or anything, I was beta. Which means I was Odin's right hand."

Hermione nodded. The last few days had been very enlightening to how werewolves worked. She'd only ever been in contact with loners like Lupin or monsters like Grayback. Werewolves that traveled in packs had their own sets of rules and customs.

They were traveling to Manchester to meet the pack to see if Lupin had made contact with any of them. It was as if Lupin disappeared after going to Numberland. It was clear that Lee and Lupin had never met at their intended destination. It also meant that there was a chance that after they were taken, they'd been led to completely different prisons.

While she'd been lucky and encountered Thomas last week, leading her in a direction to find Lupin, there had been no leads on Lee Jorden at all. Manchester was primarily focused on following Lupin's trail, but she had a secondary purpose for seeking them out too. According to Thomas the pack had fought against Death Eaters for months during the war alongside a man called Spitfire. If she could get them to submit pensive testimony, then that would go a long way in garnering full human rights and privileges for werewolves.

"Did you recognize any of the Death Eaters you and your pack took down?" Hermione asked, making notes on a case file.

Thomas shook his head.

"We kept away from the public at all costs before the war broke out, so any wanted posters or gossip was something we were not privy to. Man or woman, the Deaths were simply an army with no recognition for us between one or the other, even their smell was relatively the same because of their dark magic. Too much ash and sulfur."

"What about Spitfire? You said he wasn't a werewolf. Did he ever identify any of them?"

Thomas shrugged.

"If it wore a Death Eater mask, Spitfire targeted it. There were a few who had specific weaknesses, but he never really bothered with names because he went after them himself. Since he had the tracker, he used himself as bait a lot."

"Did you guys ever try to remove the tracker?" Hermione demanded.

"There was no means to research what curse they'd used," Thomas shrugged again. "All the magical libraries were being monitored. When Spitfire finally managed to steal a wand and tried to remove it himself, there was a nasty back lash. Spent a week jerking and twitching, his wand arm paralyzed."

Hermione winced.

"What was his real name?" Hermione asked. Curious to know if she'd ever heard of him before. Frustratingly though, Thomas only shrugged again.

"Spitfire was the only name I knew him by. Even the Death Eaters and Centaurs called him Spitfire."

"Was he dark skinned?" Hermione asked, thinking of how Lee Jorden had most likely been at Darsewel prison at some point.

"Pale," Thomas answered. "Brown hair. One leg."

"One legged?" Hermione gasped, thinking of Mad eye Moody. His body had never been recovered. "Was he a paranoid man? A magical whirling eye?"

"One eye was covered up with a bandage of some sort, but I don't think it was magical."

That was right. The magical eye had been in the door of Umbridge's Office. That had been the confirmation for her, Ron, and Harry that Mad Eye was truly gone for good. She was excited now. Utterly pleased. Wasn't it truly up Mad Eyes alley to not give his real name out? To fight Death Eaters beside a pack of werewolves? It was the sort of crazy genius plan the man would come up with.

She almost pulled out her wand to create a patronus, so thrilled was she by _good_ news that she forgot where she was at. Moody was alive. At least, had been, most likely still was. Hadn't the man proved himself a glorious terror for Voldemort to take down?

The Manchester Werewolf hideout was a lot less wild than she expected, she was embarrassed to admit she'd been thinking of tents or sleeping bags set in in a forest somewhere. Instead it was a small home on the outskirts of the town. There was a large iron nob not in the shape of a wolf's head (which her father would be disappointed to learn about after all the late night, black and white movies he adored).

Thomas himself was staring at the house in suspicion which had set her on edge.

Then the door opened and Thomas's suspicious immediately disappeared, replaced by warm amusement. The inside was… more or less what she had been expecting. The noise, magically silenced, obviously, consisted of full grown men and woman yelling their heads off at each other and gesturing wildly. Chaos reigning supreme. Messes all over the place.

All in all it reminded her of the Weasley family home.

One large family getting along just fine.

She stepped into the home and the door closed behind the two of them. Three heads popped up around the corner. One beckoning to them. Thomas was immediately welcomed by half a dozen arms.

"Cold greeting, indeed," Hermione muttered. She hoped Lupin had the opportunity to see this side of it. The warmth welcome here. Outside of these walls of flesh was a world that feared and hated them for existing. But among each other, it seemed to her at least, there was a level of pure acceptance that was rare among the wizarding kind.

A hand reached out from the mass hug, hovering in the air to shake hers. Hermione offered and found her fingers in a firm, feminine grip. The fingers relaxed and morphed into a face. A hardy looking woman of thirty or so, sand colored hair wrapped in a messy French braid and canines that were a little larger than natural. Lupin had always smiled with no teeth. She had no doubt now as to why that was.

"Howdy ho, how's it go?" the woman asked. Hermione took the offered hand, feeling the deceptively small hands tighten their grip on her fingers as the woman tugged her closer. "What can we do for you?"

"I need to speak to Odin," Hermione told her. "I'm looking for a friend of mine, a werewolf."

"Friend?" she said skeptically.

"My old professor," Hermine corrected, "then a man I looked up to and then a friend. Yes."

The werewolf let go of her hand.

"New Beta, Jane Putman, nice to make your acquaintance. You say this werewolf was a professor?" There was a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. "I'm assuming before the bite."

"After," Hermione answered. "Long after. Remus Lupin was bitten as a child."

Recognition lit her eyes.

"One of Fenrer's victims, yea? Only blasted werewolf who purposefully goes into town on the night of the full moon. We got another one of his in our group. Bitten at nine. Parents disowned. Ignored her Hogwarts letter when it arrived in the forest she was sleeping in so no wand. Had to teach her with a stolen wand just so she didn't go Obscurus on us."

Hermione shuddered, nodding in understanding.

"Odin's upstairs on the muggle thing, the phone, talking about temp jobs around town we can pick up to pay rent. Shouldn't take too long. There's only three of us who need the temp jobs now. Most got muggle jobs that are pretty easy and since they don't know about us, it's easier to keep employment. Just pull some bullshit and fake papers out about going to the Doctors once a month for a severe illness and their more than happy to accommodate since we're good workers otherwise."

"Does that work every time?" Hermione asked.

Jane shrugged.

"It's not like we're all working the same job. Besides, the truths a bit more difficult to swallow, isn't it? Sneaking the chains into the basement was the real hard part."

Jane winked.

Thomas had joined them, more roughed up than before, but grinning and shaking himself like a dog. They headed upstairs and Hermione was surprised that the air immediately quieted upon reaching the last step. The Weasley had never used silencing charms for any of the rooms, but she supposed, the Weasley home had been full of children Molly had to listen for while here it was grown adults.

They found Odin with a phone to his ear, a frown on his face, and both legs on top of his desk, folded Indian style.

"Ten o-clock? That's fine." Pause. "I'm sure he'll be a good match. He likes dogs," at this statement, Odin made a face into the phone. "Yes, he'll have the paperwork. We always have the paperwork." Pause. "Have a marvelous day yourself, sir."

Odin had the phone hung up and in one hop and two quick strides, he was pulling Thomas to his chest and patted his back, open palmed.

"You haven't owled, or phoned, or visited… you look ten pounds lighter than the last time I saw you and we'd recently escaped _prison._ Tell me how you've been, idiot."

Thomas and Hermione answered at the same time.

"Busy."

"Homeless."

Odin wrinkled his nose at her newly employed Consultant.

"Good Godric… you know you have a place with the pack. A quick floo and you could have been checking on that pup of yours easily."

Hermione was startled by the casual nature they talked about the 'curse.'

"Is she?" Hermione asked.

Odin waved a hand.

"No, no, of course not. It's just a phrase we use for kids. A bit of a joke."

"Sorry," Hermione blushed.

He waved it away, as if it wasn't worth a another seconds thought.

"So, who is this and why have you brought her here?" Odin asked Thomas.

Thomas shuffled from foot to foot.

"See, she's looking into a friend's disappearance during the war. A werewolf. Name Remus Lupin?" Thomas asked.

Odin nodded slowly.

"I didn't encounter him myself. Heard his name though, shall we take a seat?" Odin asked, gesturing to the table and couches in the room. They gathered in and after an offering of tea and agreement, they settled down to business.

"Spitfire mentioned him once when I asked him why he rescued us. He said Remus Lupin was a good man and that no one should be judged by a curse they unwillingly took. Freed us then helped us combat those bastards for a good while before they caught him. I'm afraid Spitfire only mentioned this Lupin once."

Hermione felt disappointment fill her.

"Did you encounter any werewolves whose names you didn't ask or didn't know? Or a man in his forties, mousy brown hair, about five foot six?" Hermione pressed.

Odin shook his head.

"After our escape, we only encountered a few Centaurs, a lot of Death Eaters, some Snatchers. No other werewolves though. We stayed clear from civilizations until Voldemort was taken down. Hunted by both sides, you see, Death Eaters wanted to imperius us for their own use and normal witches and wizards tend to attack us on sight. Why do you think we settled in Manchester of all the muggle forsaken places we could have picked? Normal jobs are all 'bout we can get."

After a quiet moment, Thomas spoke up.

"Any news on Spitfire?"

Here, both Odin and Jane looked grim, the alpha werewolf shook his head.

"Not a wisp in months. I heard he killed the Carrow siblings in a prisoner riot, but I didn't hear anything about him escaping."

"Heard he took down the fucker's snake, that true?" Thomas asked.

"It's true, alright," Jane told him. "Should have seen it. There the dark one was, talking about how he had Potter in his hands now, how it was all downhill for Dumbledore's people, how Hogwarts had fallen to his ways. Yada, yada, all that stuff… and there's Spitfire, one leg, nasty curse eating away at his face… and a dagger in his hand."

 _Nagina the Hocrux,_ Hermione thought numbly. News of the snake's destruction had been felt in waves. Voldemort had gone on a rampage after that. She and Harry hadn't known who had done it. They suspected, hoped, it had been Ron.

But it had been Mad Eye Moody all along.

The news saddened her.

"When was that?" Thomas asked. "How long ago did you see him?"

There was admiration in Thomas's voice. Hermione wondered how Moody had touched these people's lives. From the sounds of it, he had saved them from the dungeons. Traveled with them in the woods. Fought with them on the battlefield.

"The beginning of September," Hermione told Thomas. "That's when news of Nagina's death was discovered anyways."

"Bout right," Jane mused. "We'd performed a prison break. I think I was the only one that got a glimpse of our Spitfire though. There were too many of them. Deaths all over the place for some sort of ceremony. I had two muggleborn prisoners on my shoulder. Preteens, you know? I couldn't turn back for him. He didn't even know we were there, you know? I'm sure he knew something was going on, but… he didn't know his pack was so close and not saving him. Giving up on him."

"We went back for him after that," Odin cut in. "No one was there though. Place was completely abandoned. We were too late."

"I'm sure he doesn't blame you," Hermione said softly, thinking of the hardened Auror.

"Not the type of man he was," Thomas muttered.

"Yeah?" Hermione asked, trying to keep them talking.

"There was this battle," Thomas said, "Spitfire knew they were coming. There was this old building in the woods, something you keep horses in?"

"A stable," Hermione answered.

"That. Anyways. This one legged bastard gets himself hoisted into the rafters, tells us to spook the Death Eaters, not to attack, just spook. So we start tossing stones about the place. Get them shooting off spells at nothing, right?"

Odin grinned at Thomas, taking up the story from there.

"And once their jumping at shadows I go forward, imitating this banshees scream, just like he wanted, gets them running inside the stables like the Grim's hounding them."

"You were quite good at it too," Jane muttered.

Odin smacked her upside the head.

"That's when he strikes," Thomas points at the roof, indicating imaginary rafters. "No wand. Just a couple pitch forks and shovels. Kills three of them before they even know what's going on. When their attention is on Spitfire, firing off spells and what not, that's when we attack."

"And there he is," Jane says, excitedly, like their talking about quidditch rather than a battle. "He's using the rafters to swing himself from one spot to the other, dives on top of this Death and wrestles his wand from him."

There conversation is cut short though, when the unexpected happens.

A light shoots through the window and four bodies leap up, prepared to fight, wands out and weary. Only to find a stag patronus hovering in the air in front of Hermione. She puts down her wand, striding forward and taking its head in her hands.

"What is it?"

The stag's mouth opens and Harry delivers a message that causes her heart to stop.

"Ron's back."


	7. Chapter 5: Traitor

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter 5: The Traitor

When it all went down, Tonks had believed she knew the darker parts of the war, but three weeks ago she learned the bottom was hallow. There was no depth deep enough to measure cruelty or betrayal. No way to quantify how far a good person would go or what they could become in the face of such darkness. Three weeks ago she was forced to dive in head first into the hallow of the hole.

Tonks doesn't pull any punches when she takes Ronald Weasley down. Of course, Ronald Weasley doesn't pull any punches either. She's not sure how some nineteen-year-old brat manages to take out seven Aurors while _not_ moving from his original position, but he does so with a level of skill that alarms her.

The traitor doesn't bat an eye at using deadly force and if she hadn't chosen experienced, hardened Aurors… if she'd brought along the two rookies… they'd be dead. It rolls her stomach and hits her in her pride to admit it, but Ron has become unspeakably good at dueling.

Until this moment she'd held out hope that somehow it was all a mistake.

That it wasn't Ron who'd betrayed the Order. That it wasn't Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend, his right-hand man, who'd betrayed them to Voldemort. Tonks had ignored all the proof, all the witnesses, and all the Death Eater accounts… Because Ron had saved her life in battle. Ron who seemed so trustworthy, with wit and humor to ease even the darkest of nights… But.

It's easy to see, as a Sectumsempra nearly slices into her partner's neck, that the teen who'd protected her nearly two years ago while they'd flown through Death Eater infested skies was gone. There was no trace in the blank stare he shot them as curses flew at her Aurors.

It's as Frankie, her partner, faints a right and she a left, that they manage to bring him down. Her spell hits him right in the chest. Ron is thrown back, but doesn't lose consciousness like she expects, instead he rolls with it, coming up on his knees with arms raised, wand outwards. There's a curse on his lips already, aimed at her head, even as blood trickles from his mouth, it looks like he wants to take out one more person before falling. Fierce, desperate determination to destroy them all.

Too bad the Auror directly behind him doesn't give him the chance.

Ropes wind around him, his wand is removed by another Auror to the right and they're patting him down for cursed objects. She knows he has something on him. Polyjuice Potion or illusion charm. Ron doesn't look like Ron. Instead there's long brown hair and black eyes, there's still the broad shoulders, but not quite so broad, not quite so noticeable.

They never would have caught him if it wasn't for her map.

Diagone Alley has come a long way thanks to the lessons of Remus Lupin. With what he'd taught her about the workings of the map, back when Sirius was still alive and the topic wasn't taboo, she'd created a map quite like the Marauder's map for the largest Wizarding Cities in Britain. It had aided in the arrest of more dark wizards in its mere three months' existence than any other tactic in history. It had also revealed Ronald Weasley's name, under disguise, meandering around the wizarding town.

At first, she hadn't believed it, the first sighting in two years. It was still hard to believe it. This beast didn't look like Ron and certainly hadn't acted like it. Tonks couldn't seem to stop herself from shaking as she approached him.

And then he smiled.

The young man before her had his mouth hooked upwards in that familiar half grin. The shape of his eyes were the same and it wasn't difficult to imagine a splattering of freckles crossing his face. Not Polyjuice. Just an illusion charm. She aimed to remove it, before glancing at the windows around them.

"Let's move him to the DA Tower first. I don't want this getting out," Tonks barked.

"Ah, babe, my very own tower. You shouldn't have."

The voice was like a slap in the face.

Frankie returns the gesture with a true one. Ron's head snapped to the side, the blood trickling from his mouth spattering the street. Ron didn't react though, just slowly turned his head back, tilting his head in the general direction of his assailant, raising both eyebrows as if to say 'really?'

But the voice is still reverberating through her bones.

Rougher than she remembered, but still the same; equal parts teasing and gruff. Her Aurors are moving now, forcing him to his feet. Mays, two years her senior in age, knocks her elbow back, catching Ron across the face as they work. Tonks refrains from saying anything. If it was any other follower of Voldemort, she wouldn't.

When they get him to his feet, Tonks is taken by surprise. Ron had gone through another growth spurt, apparently. At least six-foot six now. He towered over the Aurors. Over her. Tonks swallowed at the thought, trying to force the image of the school boy out of her mind. Of Ron growing up among Death Eaters, eating beside them, conspiring with them.

Even after the fight, it's hard to picture.

But one glance at Ron, wearing a strangers face, teeth bared and muscles tense… waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of the Aurors around him. Looking for the best moment to make his escape from those who would lay down their lives for the greater good. She could begin to picture the road he'd taken and it shook her spine nearly free from the muscles.

When her Aurors have recovered from the fight, they apparate, Ron between them all. But when they try marching him into the building, Ron fumbles. His right leg giving out beneath him every few steps and when he gets it under him, it drags. The Aurors watch wearily, though to Tonks it only makes sense.

Ron hadn't moved from his position.

She'd feared he was acting as a distraction. That it was all part of the plan and something far worse was taking place. Four Aurors were scouting the area at that very moment to ensure nothing untold was happening in the finally peaceful city.

If he were injured though… well it made her feel better to know that he couldn't run rathe than he wouldn't. Ferris poked him in the back with his rod. No bullshit. No mercy. Get up. Get moving. Ron jerked, bearing his teeth and using his broader frame to jerk Ferris with him, but two numbing spells hit his back near instantly.

He was a fighter.

 _That_ , at least, hadn't changed.

Ron's body went slack inside the ropes as they pulled him along. His weight leaning heavily against their own as the leg refused to hold any of it. Ron didn't say anything about it though and soon enough they were inside.

She let him stew in there for a while. Tied to the chair inside the Aurors Alley headquarters. The interrogation room set up in Diagone Alley Tower was a new addition to the town. The war having forced them to rebuild it from the ground up. It was all part of the redesign. For the Aurors to be stationed in a separate place than the Ministry. To be more available… more accessible to the people. To not have all their eggs in one basket, sort of speak.

The distance though, it wasn't just to make Ron stew, no, it was more to get her head in the game then to give him any peace and quiet. She needed to be prepared when she went in there. Impartial. Unbiased. All that nonsense that none of them were after the war. This wasn't just some Death Eater or Snatcher, this wasn't some random criminal who had been supporting Voldemort with money or resources.

They had gone through all of the right motions, the counter spell precautions removing any possible imperius from Ron. The person in that room, the one they'd marched here, was all Ron Weasley.

Tonks nodded to Keegan as she walked in, standing directly in front of Ron. She wondered if she should have informed Harry before walking in and then dismissed it. If she did inform him then Harry would have managed to get here before she ever stepped into this room. No, she needed to talk to Ron first. She couldn't let Ron hurt Harry any more than he already had.

Ron's wrists were locked in place above his head, the chains sprouting from the ceiling like vines, looking much like a metal botanical garden, but the teen seemed entirely unconcerned about his situation. He was looking around in an almost curious manner, his eyes trailing from one person to the next. When his eyes landed on her, it felt as if Ron was looking passed her, complete and utter indifference to her existence, to the friendship they'd had. He gave her no more notice than any of the other Aurors in the room. Instead he tested out the restraints with, if Tonks was brave enough to label, an air of playfulness.

"You've got me in a tight spot now, don't you?" Ron tilted his head a bit as he peered at them, as if he were examining a piece of art and wasn't impressed. "Well, what are you waiting for, aren't you going to have your way with me?"

He winked.

Revulsion went through her. The disguise he was wearing, at least, was easier to look at. She decided to let him keep the look until this interrogation was over. It would be much harder to be impartial if she were looking into Ron's blue eyes or caught sight of his red hair. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to stop thinking about the Weasley's or about poor Molly who'd screamed her lungs out in denial.

"You're going to be executed," Tonks told him, matter o' fact like, laying down just how serious the matter was.

Ron jiggled his wrists, testing out the strength of the metal, if she had to guess.

"Oh no, dearie me, executed?" Ron leaned as far back as possible, turning his body as far as he could, to face the Auror standing guard at the door. The chains kept hold, keeping his legs locked to the chair even as the chains above rattled. "Did you hear that?" Ron addressed May, the Auror sneering at him. "Golly gee, that's terrible, Miss. That's a right tragedy. The world, it just ain't ready to lose a soul like me. But I got to say this, Madam, I really do," Ron turned back to face Tonks, fast and sharp, leaning in as close as possible. "Why don't you stop wasting my fucking time and do it?"

Tonks flinched.

"What?"

At the door, Keegan's eyes widened, glancing at Tonks, lost for words.

"I said," Ron growled, "Why don't you stop wasting my fucking time and do it? Or would you rather we have a nice cup of tea then? Perhaps a little crucio in between my teaspoons of sugar? A little electric shock?"

"You'd certainly deserve it," Tonks snapped, fed up.

Ron opened his mouth, and closed it, giving her an odd stare.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" He finally asked.

"I'm not normally bad at it," Tonks growled. "Guess it has something to do with you being a kid." Tonks shrugged. At this Ron laughed, harsh and raw, the sound something that probably hurt his throat. It was Tonks turn to lean forward, enough that both May and Keegan took a step forward to stop her. "But I think it has more to do with the fact that you used to be my friend."

The boy jerked forward so hard that both she and Keegan flinched back in surprise. May moved forward and tore Tonks away, as if somehow, Ron could hurt her while thoroughly locked in place. A line of blood glistened under the cuffed wrist from where metal dug into flesh. Ron bared his teeth, actually growling at her as he snarled out: "I was NEVER and will NEVER be your fri…"

Then Ron froze.

The words died out. Ron fell back into his seat. The unnatural dark brown hair falling in front of his eyes. Mouth still open, mid word. The boy curled into himself, for the first time showing emotions other than indifference. His fingers started to tap the chains, four digits hitting metal while the thumbs lay under them. It was a stressed habit, normally against the table, Tonks remembered Hermione complaining about it a few times: one that interrupted _her_ studies while he rushed through his last minute ones.

It had made her smile back then. Now she watched those long fingers in confusion. Wondering what she'd said to bring on such a drastic change. She could hear his foot tapping under the table.

"We were friends?" Ron said slowly, studying her.

Completely bewildered, Tonks nodded.

A beat of silence passed between them.

"We were friends?" Ron repeated, after a moment, voice urgent.

Tonks sighed.

"I always thought so," Tonks allowed. "Of course, who knows how long it is that you were… harboring such thoughts. Maybe we were _never_ friends to begin with." She emphasized the same word he'd shouted so angrily just a moment before, watching him carefully. "We're here so that I can see just how long ago it was that your motivations changed. If they ever did."

Intense, was the word Tonks would use, Ron had tilted his head when she started speaking, a look of concentration on his face. Black eyes squinting at her as if trying to pry into her soul.

"So," Tonks drew the conversation around again, to her priority now, "Tell me, Ronald Weasley, when did you decide to betray Harry Potter to Voldemort? When did you start gathering information for the other side?"

"Is this a joke?" Ron whispered. "Are you fucking with me?"

"Were you just 'fucking with' the seven Aurors you brutally attacked today? Were you joking when you told Voldemort about the safe houses? Infiltrated, women and children murdered in those homes, Order Safe havens burned to the ground. You tell Me."

Ron squirmed where he sat, looking very lost and very young.

"I don't recognize…" His fingers stopped tapping the chains. "Who are you?"

"The amnesia card? Really?" Keegan called from the door, disbelief coloring his tone. Tonks couldn't blame him. It was ridiculous. What's more, Tonks couldn't believe the Ron she knew would ever believe her stupid enough to fall for such a lame ruse.

"No, no, that's not," Ron swallowed. The tapping started up, more intense. "I don't have amnesia. We're having two different conversations here."

Tonks actually laughed, incredulous.

"Really? We are? Then please, enlighten me."

"I didn't know they were Aurors."

"Excuse me?" Tonks snapped.

"I. DIDN'T. KNOW. THEY. WERE. AURORS," Ron growled back.

"Did you somehow miss the uniform? The robes? The badges?" Tonks drawled.

"I thought I was caught. I thought they got me again," Ron's hands fisted. "I didn't see any of those things…"

"BULLSHIT!" Tonks slammed her hands down onto the table. Two indentions formed. Two gorilla fists in place of her hands, but Tonks didn't have time to reflect on the fact that she'd lost control of her anamorphic ability. "You're better than this! Own up to horror you've caused, you fucking coward!"

"I'M BLIND!" Ron's hands jerked upward, clanking against the metal, as if he'd intending to throw his hands up in the air in exasperation.

Tonks sat down in shock.

"I've been locked up in a cell for Merlin knows how long." Ron shrugged, his words rushed, stressed. "I escaped… two weeks ago? Made it all of five minutes into the wizarding world only to be surrounded by a bunch of people who wanted to capture me."

Keegan swore.

Tonks… was having a hard time getting past the first two words, let alone processing enough to make sound form between her lips. Ron almost sounded apologetic when he spoke next. His voice soft and searching.

"I don't… I don't recognize your voice."

Tonks studied the young man in front of her. The way his eyes slid passed her, knowing her general area, but not seeing (indifferent, as Tonks had thought only minutes beforehand). She hesitated. Her hope was rekindled. Dangerous hope. For Tonks, the final condemnation of him had been attacking her Aurors, attacking her.

Blind though… Ron had been taken captive by 'the enemy' and had thrown himself into playing a devil may care, 'torture me if you think you can beat me' attitude. Not indifference. Not callousness. Not disregard for the lives of good people. No, if he were truly blind, then Ron had fought tooth and nail against being captured by Death Eaters again. He had 'dared' them to torture him. To try to break him. To kill him. It made… for an incredibly different picture.

Tonks reached forward for the illusion charm tied around his neck. The one she couldn't bear to take off before because she hadn't been able to face the true face of the kid she'd fought beside. The leather came undone with a few harsh tugs, falling away and taking the magic with it.

Red hair, flattened by dirt and grease, making it practically brown. Milky white eyes stared back at her. A moving, throbbing curse like magic spreading out from his eyes like a black, living mask, scar tissue spreading outwards from the curse all across his face, swirling around his ear lobes and down his neck, and upwards into his hair line.

"Holy shit," May mumbled.

Tonks cupped his face, fingers tracing the hot like throbbing mess.

"What did this?" Tonks demanded.

Ron hesitated for only a split second.

"Voldemort tore out everything I've ever 'seen' and sealed it inside of a necklace for his own personal viewing," Ron said quietly. "He couldn't hear anything in those memories, but there was plenty where he didn't need to."

"Locations you've been… like safe houses. The Hocrux the three of you captured," Tonks murmured. "Secret entrances into Hogwarts." She felt Ron swallow hard in her hands. She let go, cupping his long fingers in her own.

"After the Legilimacy failed, I thought Voldemort wouldn't be able to get into my head. I thought as long as I could keep up the walls around the important memories, then I could make it out of there. If I'd had any idea what he had in mind… even the barest hint of that curse… I would have killed myself. I swear," Ron stammered.

Tonks nodded. Realized what she'd done and spoke out loud.

"It's what we expected of you."

Ron kept his head downcast, staring with unseeing eyes into his lap. He seemed to want to ask something, but was refraining from doing so. And then it hit her. Ron still didn't know who she was. Hadn't known since she'd first confronted him some hours ago.

"It's Tonks, Ron, Tonks."

Ron tried to look her in the eyes then. When he failed, his lips thinned.

"How is the war going...?"

Behind Ron, Tonks saw Keegan straighten, exchanging looks with May.

Her own breath hitched. Harry Potter had triumphed over Voldemort… Eight months ago. Ron hadn't just been locked in a cell. He'd been abandoned and forgotten inside a cell.

"We won. Harry beat him."

There was a blank look on his face as Ron processed that. Then a very, very small smile.

"I knew he would. Is he okay? Is Hermione… What happened?"

Tonks met Keegan's eyes over Ron's shoulder. Without a word the man left to get the Minister of Magic. The faster they could get the trial going and clear Ron's name then the faster they could take the cuffs off.

"The Final Battle took place eight months ago, back in January, inside the Gringotts Bank…" Tonks began. A private trial would do. Even as she spoke, explaining things to Ron as carefully as possible, she was picking out the most discreet people she knew. The jury would be random, of course, but the guards, the Judge, she wanted people who weren't prone to dramatics, who would keep things as quiet as possible. When shit hit the fan. When Harry and Hermione found out…

Oh Merlin.

Ron was back.

Ron was not a traitor and he was back.

For a briefest moment she considered Ron might be lying. That all of this was just an elaborate trick to pull the wool over her eyes. She dismissed it almost as soon as the thought entered her mind. His confession here fit much too nicely into everything that had happened. It explained _everything_ that had been up in the air. All the questions they'd wondered about for the past two years. All of it just sort of fell into place.

Lies, as Tonks had experience in, tended to be messy. Lies left behind loop holes and required backstories in their creation in order to fit well. The truth though, the truth simply was. It required no credentials or believability because life supported it.

Ron not returning.

The safe houses being hit.

Voldemort's own words in battle, the words that had convinced what was left of the Order to believe Ron had truly betrayed them. The attack against Kingsley Shacklebolt near a year ago that had set in stone Ron's status as Traitor for the wizarding world.

Tonks spoke to Ron in a quiet, soothing voice, about everything that had happened these past two years. Her eyes kept straying to his eyes. The milky white irises blank, following her body movements by tilting his ear and listening, guessing her general area. The throbbing curse mark that chilled her to the bone.

At some point, when he looked ready to crumble to the floor, despite the chains. She stopped, cupped his cheek, directing him in her direction. He'd heard enough for now. It was his turn to tell her some things.

"Ron, where did they keep you?" She asked. "Where'd you escape from?"

"All sorts of places," Ron answered. "They always found me though. There's a tracker in my neck."

Tonks lifted his chin to take a look and shuddered.

His neck was a mess of scars. Jagged holes liked he'd been stabbed in the throat lined all the way around. Burn marks. A small black skull had been burned into his neck as well, just under the chin, throbbing a steady purple that she recognized as the tracker. And one other scar. A word carved into the base of his chest, just under his throat.

Mutt.

"We'll get it off of you," Tonks promised. "No more running. No more escapes. No more cells."

Ron jerked and shuddered.

"Don't make promises like that."

The words saddened her, but she nodded.

"Is there anything that I can get you?" Tonks asked.

Ron thought for a moment. Then nodded.

"My glamor charm. I don't… I don't like it when people can see my eyes."

"Alright, but let me change it for you," Tonks said, taking it in her hands, she couldn't stand the idea of him looking like before. She pictured Ron, undamaged, unharmed. Sharp blue eyes. The young man who had been with her on that Thestral in battle. She altered the image created by the glamor charm, feeling the small, plain looking bead. "You're going to have to submit memories during the Trial. Are you willing?" She asked, her voice more sure of herself, more Head Auror, confident.

Ron nodded.

"The enemies already seen everything, there's nothing else they can take from me, might as well show it to the good guys. Whatever it is you want, you can have it," Ron said hollowly.

"It's best if you submit the moment when…" Tonks moved to gestured towards his eyes, stopping half way. "…when they took your sight from you."

"It's not completely gone," Ron admitted. "For whatever reason, I can see magic. I can see your core, the magic flowing through your veins. It's why I can track you when you move. Sounds helps, but it's being able to see the magic inside of people that's kept me alive."

Tonks looked down at herself.

"What does that look like? Is it the same for everyone?" She asked, curiosity besting her.

It was a little scary, to be honest, seeing the milky white eyes set in curse marks examining her.

"It's not… colors, if that's what you're asking, but each signature is unique. It's like… tone of voice. There's thousands of different tones. Thousands of meanings you could give a word, just by making the tone sound different. Yours is… a lot more flexible and giving than any I've seen so far. I didn't know what it meant before, but it probably has something to do with your animorphic ability. Your magic is… hard to describe. The person in here with you? There's was steady, a predictable beat, reliable. The magic was… lukewarm? I don't know. It's hard to understand."

Tonks nodded, fascinated.

"You can't even tell gender then?"

Ron shook his head.

"I just know your there and alive. Like, I can see an object that has magic, but I know it's dead. Can't tell a magical creature from a human though. Not unless their entirely made of magic. Like… the difference between a griffin and a thestral. Thestral's are all magic so I can see them entirely, but griffin's just have a touch of magic, so I wouldn't able to tell them from a witch or wizard going by."

The door opened and there stood the Minister of Magic. Tonks straightened, sliding the glamor charm into her pocket. She couldn't give it to him until after this was over. Kingsley Shacklebolt looked grim, a determined, yet weary set to his shoulders.

When he walked around the chair and got a look at Ron, he stumbled. Ron glanced in Kingsley's general direction, but his eyes slid passed. Without the glamor, it was obvious what had been done to him.

"Godric," Kingsley breathed.

Ron flinched, turning his face away.

"It's Kingsley, Ron," Tonks told him. "Did you bring the vials?"

Kingsley nodded, sitting down slowly, clearing his throat and pulling out a small marble like ball of glass. He tapped it twice and it began to glow; recording their session.

"Before the head of the Auror department, Nyphradora Lupin and the Ministery of Magic, myself, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the prisoner, Ronald Weasley, agrees to submit a series of memories for the court to view and make judgement."

"Yes," Ron answered.

Kingsley set five vials on the table.

"You can have up to five memories to be viewed by the court," Tonks informed him.

"I know the first one already," Ron said quietly. "The moment Voldemort ripped my sight and everything I've ever seen from my eyes. Take that."

Tonks said nothing. Kingsley didn't so much as blink at the new information, simply nodded and pointed his wand at Ron's forehead. The memory came out shakily, it trembled in pain as it entered the vial and the Head Auror couldn't imagine the horror it contained if even the memory itself, in its purest form, trembled so.

"Rebastan said that…" Ron stopped, eyes wide as he stared off into space. "He would come to my cell and tell me things. He said that there was nowhere for me to return to, that he'd made sure I was… that People thought I was…"

"A Death Eater," Kingsley finished for him, a cold note to his voice, Tonks sent him a disbelieving glance, gesturing towards Ron's body, to which Kingsley shrugged as if to say 'nothing proven yet.' Ron rocked back and forth against the chains, twitching in his seat and nodding, muttering to himself as if they weren't in the room. Kingsley and Tonks shared a look, but waited patiently until Ron's milky white eyes wandered over in their direction.

"I killed Roldophus," Ron admitted, "the third time I escaped, he came after me and I killed him. Rebastan and Bellatrix Lestrange…" Ron visible shrunk under the mention of the two Death Eaters. "They were very determined to… make sure I lived worse than death. They didn't have any interest in killing me. They wanted to destroy everything that I was, they wanted me to know they were doing it."

That was a lot to take in. It certainly fit with the picture that had been painted for them. Kingsley looked older than she'd ever seen, even now, the man looked unwilling to accept what Ron was saying.

"Then prove it," Kingsley shot back. "Put it in the vial."

Ron nodded.

"The day I killed Roldophus then," Ron muttered. "And the day Rebastan locked me up in the muggle insane asylum. Two memories."

"Muggle insane asylum?" Tonks asked.

"My last prison," Ron said with a shrug. "The Halfway house. Rebastan performed memory alterations on the muggles running the place, convinced them that I was an insane serial killer who tortured children for fun. They… tried to fix me."

Tonks knew the revulsion on Kingsley's face was mirrored on her own.

"Alright," Kingsley said, less firm this time, "Put it in the vials."

Ron simply nodded.

Kingsley filled up two more vials.

"You have…"

"Two more. Yeah. The day I left Harry and Hermione, the day I abandoned them. That's my fourth."

"You sure?" Tonks asked. "I'm sure it's important to you, but it doesn't really seem relevant to…"

"I was captured the same day," Ron sighed, a self-deprecating smile on his face. Tonks bulked.

"But then…"

"Yeah, the whole two years."

Kingsley still wouldn't look at him.

"Only a few hours after I left them. I… wasn't thinking straight. I kept thinking about Percy, how he was being a git, but how he was stuck in the Ministry and didn't know how much danger he was in. Only… when I went looking for him, I ran into Penelope Clearwater instead… about to be executed."

"You stepped in?" Tonks said blankly remembering Clearwater's account.

Ron leaned heavily against the chains, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

"I knocked her out of the way. She ran one way. I ran the other. They came my way. I fought. I lost. I fucked up. I got captured. Got passed around from Death Eater to Death Eater. Ended up in Numberland then Nox Wrath and then Dreswel then Bristol's Gallies and then Mercies for the Mentally Unstable-The Halfway House, as Rebastan referred to it. Somewhere in there's a couple escapes, a few battles, nothing that made a difference though. Still ended up in chains at the end of the day, what with the tracker and all. Just one big long list of fuck ups and prison cells."

The fourth vial was filled.

"Think carefully, Ron," Tonks urged.

"I think there's only one I can give," Ron said slowly. Those milky eyes looked in her direction. "Tonks, the last one involves Profess… erm. It involves Lupin. How he died."

She felt sick. Because deep down a tiny bit of her had wanted Hermione to be right. That somewhere out there was her husband, waiting to be rescued. She covered her mouth, trying not to be sick with the thought.

"Remus Lupin is dead then," Kingsley asked. The conversation had whittled down his weariness of Ron. Ron nodded, the chains above him clinking. He gestured for Kingsley to take it. Tonks watched, numb, as her husband's death was removed from Ron's mind. It came out like tar, dripping with such darkness that both hardened Aurors looked away, though she was surprised to see a small dot of light at the end of it out of the corner of her eye.

"The Gallies at Bristol is where prisoners are sent to be executed," Ron told them the red head was speaking in clipped, short sentences. As if he were reading the information from a pamphlet instead of memory. "It's a cliff overlooking a lake. Eternally frozen over with magic. Even when the ice breaks, it just starts to reform instantly. Voldemort got a sick sense of humor out of having chained up prisoners tossed over the edge. Their bodies breaking the ice down below."

"And how did you escape then?" Kingsley growled.

The disbelief was back in his voice.

Ron's head turned in Kingsley direction.

"I didn't. I was thrown off the cliff after the others. Lupin's body had cracked the ice. I went in after them. It's the impact that kills instantly. They wanted me to drown as ice caked my lungs from the inside out, to freeze there as an eternal prison. I have the memory and you have the vial."

Kingsley straightened at the challenge in Ron's voice. From Tonks spot, it seemed Ron was done. He'd given up. He was waving a white flag and being dragged off to tie a noose with it.

Kingsley grasped the vial with the memory to him.

"Do you want to be present for the Trial?" Tonks asked.

"I'd prefer is you just stupefied me into unconsciousness so that I can sleep," Ron drawled. "They have the truth. I don't care what they decide."

"And if they decide you should be imprisoned or executed?" Kingsley demanded, sounding incredulous.

"Then I'll cross my fingers and hope for execution. Sleep is sleep, after all, I've long sense stopped caring how I get it."

They left Ron like that.

Chained up and waiting for the world to condemn him.


	8. Chapter 6: The Return

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Shout out to one of my favorite Ron writers: Random-fruitcake04. Her story 'Choices' is one of my favorites and is definitely my favorite alternative school timeline fics. Anyone who has read her work will notice the small dedication in this alternative universe. Please check out and review her story. She is also one of the inspirations for my 'Vanguard' story. Though Sprightly Gryffindor and Solsice Muse are equally at fault for the creation of Vanguard and its planned sequels.

* * *

Chapter 6: Return

Harry has imagined a thousand different scenarios when it comes to Ron. Harry has imagined storming Death Eater safe houses and finding Ron being held captive. He's imagined discovering Ron in a cell with chains keeping him in place. He imagined finding a tormented captive, so filthy they are unrecognizable, cleaning the face up only to find blue eyes and freckles staring accusingly at him. At the end of each of these imaginary scenarios there is always the words that come with it.

" _How could you leave me with them?"_

" _Why did you give up searching for me?"_

" _How could you let them hurt me?"_

He's had nightmares about the opposite. Tracking down a Death Eater and pulling back the hood to find Ron grinning at him, pointing his wand at his face and using the killing curse to end it all. Harry has woken up in a cold sweat after brutal nightmares where Tonks informs him that they caught Ronald Weasley, Harry forced to interrogate his friend only for him to confess to everything. Nightmares where they are on opposites sides of the battlefield and Ron is alive, but standing beside Voldemort himself, mocking Harry for being foolish enough to think Ron could stay loyal to someone so pathetic.

The worst nightmares though, are the ones where Ron is dead. Of all the possibilities of what _could or did_ happen, not even Ron betraying him could be worse than seeing Ron dead. Being too late. Ron in a prison cell, Ron in a pile of bodies, Ron on the floor of a safe house. Dead. Dead. Dead.

The facts.

Ron disappeared in the middle of the night never to be seen again. There were rumors, lies, fake sightings, but nothing concrete after that night. Only suspicions. No one knew the truth.

Harry had imagined that maybe a Death Eater or a Snatcher got a lucky hit. Maybe Ron was out there somewhere, obliviated. Maybe Ron had simply left the country. Maybe Ron had tripped over his own feet and impaled himself in the middle of the forest and no one would ever know.

A _thousand_ scenarios. Everyday a new one seemed to pop into his head. The details usually depended on Harry's mood that day and how bad his hallucinations were. None of them even came close to how the reunion would actually take place.

Eight months after the end of the war, Harry Potter spotted Ron Weasley leaving the Auror Headquarters. Harry stopped in the middle of long strides towards the Auror office, a clerical woman crashing into his back. He didn't notice her begin to curse, but pause upon seeing his face, hurrying to apologize and quickly making a retreat around him. Nor did he notice the wide sea of people part to allow him to just stand and stare.

Everything inside of him felt too powerful to contain; his hatred and anger, his love and longing, his hurt and betrayal all bid for attention. The emotions, like a bag full of rocks contained in a card board box, falling down the side of a mountain. These emotions tore through the surface as if the flesh were made of wet card board.

So, Harry Potter did what he always did when he was overwhelmed, and unsure of what to do next. He listened to his instincts. Which launched him across the room and toward Ron as fast as possible. He saw Ron's figure tense, saw the red head turn slightly, raising a wand and eyes looking around in manic panic. Then Ron's eyes landed on Harry.

Harry Potter slugged Ron Weasley across the face.

Ron Weasley shot a hex straight into Harry Potter's Stomach.

* * *

This is what the public claims to know:

Ronald Billius Weasley betrayed Harry James Potter sometime in the summer of 1999. It was stated that the plan entrusted to Harry Potter by Dumbledore fell into Lord Voldemort's hands alongside safe houses, a complete list of members belonging to the Order of the Phoenix, secrets belonging to Wizard Wheezes whose products had aided in the escape of muggleborns and half-bloods alike, and other sensitive information.

The Second War against Voldemort finally found its end in January of 1999, but took with it one-third of the Hogwarts student body. Entire blood lines wiped out, thousands fleeing England for the temporary safety of the continent, and the muggle world very aware it was under attack, but unable to find the source.

Six months after the end of the war saw Harry Potter rise in ranks to head of his squad, more from a lack of anyone else being able to handle the position than a willingness to hand over such difficult reigns to one so young. Nymphadora Tonks had been promoted to Head Auror, struggling to take care of her child alone, Remus Lupin having disappeared during an Order mission. Hermione Granger had not been able to go back to school, but was thrust into the chaos and shambles of the district of law, setting up trials left and right, Percival Weasley at her side as her chief assistant.

The reveal of Bill Weasley's home as a safe house ended in his death and the disappearance of his wife, Fleur. Charlie Weasley died protecting his mother during an attack on the Burrow, leaving the kitchen of the building completely wiped out and Molly Weasley's right hand badly burned and giving her a severe concussion that left minor, but permanent damage due to the inability to attain a Healer during the War. Arthur Weasley had died in one of the final battles October of 1999 protecting Percival Weasley from Voldemort controlled Ministry Members seeking to destroy 'the leak' of vital information.

Not long after, a devastating battle took place in Diagone Alley that ended in the death of many Slytherine rebel groups working for the Order led by Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. The two were honored along with all Order members on a memorial plaque outside of Auror Headquarters.

In September of 1999, Ronald Weasley was caught leaving Auror Headquarters by Harry Potter. Nearly two years of absence since he marched out of the tent in the middle of a forest and never came back.

* * *

Two weeks of interrogation by Aurors was a bit like watching a first year try and bully a seventh year. Especially since the only members allowed to know of his existence was the team that had taken him down in the first place. Those on the team who hadn't been there for Tonks interrogation had quickly learned of it and all that it entailed and most of them were prone to believe his innocents after a few pensive memories.

Keegan

May

Frankie

Danny Prang

These were the figures who came to visit him in his cell. Though cell was a word Ron would be hard pressed to use. There were pillows! Bonified, delightfully soft pillows. The blanket that had given him was thick and soft it kept him perfectly warm. Ron could sleep. He could fucking sleep and it was the best thing on the face of the bloody planet.

Godric, this was nice, who cared if there were bars and a million questions to get through? No one was stabbing into his skin with metal pieces, no one was locking into chairs and electrocuting him, no one was drowning him or butchering him or…

"Dinner," May's voice called.

The figure swung open the door. It was magicked with antiapparition wards, making it relatively visible to him, but everything inside the cell was just as invisible as they'd ever been. Ron sat up and waited as she set the food down on the table, trying not to reach for it until the door closed, but to his surprise it didn't. Instead the solid, constant stability of the figure sat down, making the soft bed dip in.

"Your trials today," May told him. "Which means you'll be walking by this time tomorrow."

Ron unfolded his legs, letting the stump of his right leg dangle, the appendix missing a few inches below his hip.

"Is that a Euphemism?" Ron chuckled.

There was a deadly silence and Ron was reminded that the Aurors didn't appreciate his humor. The woman before him moved around and Ron had to wonder yet again what she looked like, how old she was. He didn't ask though. Instead he moved as far away from her as possible and felt around on the plate until he found a bowl and spoon, scooping the… soup? And then shoveling it in his mouth.

"I went into the memory with Tonks… the one that had Remus Lupin's death."

Ron swallowed, trying to keep the memories at bay, trying not to remember the way they'd dragged Lupin into his cell. How Lupin scooped him up in a hug so fierce and caring that Ron had broken down and sobbed for hours that first night in his arms. How Lupin had kept close enough to touch his shoulder because Ron kept waking up thinking he was alone. How Lupin had talked in that way, soft, but stern yet teasing. He told Ron about how terrible the war was going, how there didn't seem to be an end in sight. He told of triumphs and rescues, failures and deaths, but more than anything he told him about his family.

About Bill and Charlie and his mum's arm.

The pensive memory didn't have any of that. It had only Lupin's death. His and seven others Ron couldn't see, but that Lupin had counted out under his breath. They'd all had their hands tied as they were led from the prison to the Gallows. Still, Lupin had kept close to him, letting their shoulder's touch as they walked and warning Ron of anything that he couldn't see.

"There's a cliff up ahead," Lupin had mumbled, Ron could hear his teeth chattering and though it was cold, Ron could barely feel it, too numb to it all at that point. "Their… Ron, I think they're going to…"

And then the scream had come.

It had been the piercing scream of a woman that had begun to fade, as if she'd been carried off by a broom. Then a sickening crack as something hit ice far off. The sound of Voldemort making some cheap benevolent speech to the rest of them, but Ron wasn't paying attention because the bastard had just fucking dropped a woman off a bloody cliff.

Then Ron was being pushed forward. He thrashed against the hold, trying to get away, but… a spell hit him in the back, made his limbs go numb. He could hear Lupin fighting, struggling, could hear a Death Eater go down.

"Run! Lupin, Run!"

But he hadn't. He'd grabbed Ron, tried to help him up, tried to get them both away. Then…

"Ron!"

Ron's head shot up. He wasn't there though… he was here. The Auror Headquarters. The war was over. Lupin was dead. Ron licked his lips, took another bite of soup, tried to push the memories away, this time successfully.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"What happened to Lupin…"

"Don't say it's not my fault. We'd both know you would be lying."

"I don't need to say it. If you were imprisoned with him then I'm sure he told you as such himself. I bet it's not the first time you heard it either."

Ron scrunched up further in his corner. He scraped the bottom of his bowl and set it down beside him. His fingers clanked against metal as he tried to grab the cup, feeling a piece of bread and some sort of fruit. May's figure reached forward and Ron felt the glass being gently placed in his fingers.

"What will you do when you get out?" She asked.

Ron shrugged, glad for the subject change.

"Disappear, probably," Ron muttered.

"And go where?"

Ron shrugged, taking a long drag of the water.

"Where work is? I can't really think of any place wanting to hire me."

"You could work here." At Ron's incredulous laugh, May amended. "You can do work assisting our Aurors. Your ability to see magic is not something to sniff at."

Ron fiddled with the now empty water cup.

"Harry works here, doesn't he?" Ron asked quietly.

"He does."

"If I know Harry…" Ron said slowly. "When I get out of here and he wants to talk… its not gonna be pretty."

* * *

Free from the Ministry prison, from the Muggle Asylum, and from the various cells of Death Eater hide outs, Ron managed all of one hundred steps to the exit towards freedom before his instincts screamed at him that something was coming.

He whirled, pulling out the temporary wand Kingsley had given him, trying to find what was amiss, when he felt a body lunging towards him, saw a black shadowy figure's fist launch at his face. His head snapped to the side with a sickening creak, he let a spell out from the wand instinctively. Felt the figure flung away from him, heard them hit the floor, a low growl of fury emitting from the person as they got back up.

Ron stood defensively, hearing the murmurs, knowing everyone in the Ministry probably wanted a shot at him. It could honestly be anyone.

"How dare you," the person hissed, "how fucking dare you show your face here like this. As if _nothing_ has happened."

Ron recognized the voice instantly.

"Harry."

"Don't call me that. _You_ don't get to call me by my first name. Not anymore," Harry hissed, every word hostile and hateful. Ron didn't bother to fight the demand from his once best friend. The need to curl into a ball and ball and beg for forgiveness struck, but Ron knew Harry wasn't the type to respect that. He wasn't the type to listen at all when he was this furious. Nothing Ron could say right now would get through to him.

Bone weariness filled him. All he wanted was to take Harry in his arms and never let him go. To find Hermione and just sweep her off her feet and kiss her until they were both breathless… Knowing that was impossible, all he could do was leave. There was no home to go to now though. Not with half his family butchered and the other half furious with him. It was a very familiar aching sensation and Ron had been forced to learn how to ignore it. So rather than turn and flee and crawl away like every instinct was telling him to, he stood his ground. He gazed at the direction he thought Harry was in and spoke as clearly as he could, the speech he'd rehearsed in his head for months sounding weak and poor out loud:

"I won't step foot here again," Ron promised. "I won't call you by your first name. I'm not going to pretend like I can make up for anything." His mouth felt dry. He wished he could see Harry. Wished he could see the bright green eyes that always told him what his best friend was thinking. "I'll stay out of your way, I promise. I know you probably don't want it, I know you probably don't believe it or think I'm insane for saying it, but… if there's anything you need that I can help with, just ask for it. I'll do what I can."

Ron hurried his speech up, practically feeling the anger increasing by the second.

"I know I can't be forgiven. I'm not asking for it. I know you don't trust me. I'm not asking you to. I just want you to know that if there ever comes a moment when you are forced to talk to me or ask me for something, I'll try to make it easy on you or help you." Ron choked on his words. He was glad, at least, that all he could see was shadowy figures. That his sight had been robbed almost completely from him. It hid the crowd around them at least. He could hear their furious, scandalized voices, but he couldn't see them and that somehow made it easier to face this conversation.

"That's it, I guess, I'm sorry. Not that it makes up for anything, but I'm sorry."

"I hate you," Harry snapped. "I _hate_ you."

Ron flinched.

"I know."

They stood in the middle of the Ministry like that, shifting and, for Ron's part, trying to figure out which of the dark shadows with flickering lights inside their chests, standing in front of him, was Harry. His ex-best friend probably had his steely green eyes speared at him. He wasn't sure what to do, hadn't known where he was going when he took off for the exit in the first place and now felt even more out of place, balancing unsuccessfully on his new prosthetic.

"Why now?" Harry snarled. "Why come back now?"

His throat felt dry. All the places he'd been dragged to came to mind. Being locked up, chained and hauled from place to place. He scratched at his neck, where the grisly tracker had been, where the white jacket had cut into him after that, where the charm disguising his disfigurements resided now.

"I escaped about a month ago. I got just far enough into town for the Ministry to drag me into _their_ cell," Ron said honestly, his soul sagging with the words, and in effect, his body.

"Escaped? The war ended eight months ago," Harry spoke. This time his voice was stiff, anger and something else Ron wasn't sure of.

"As of two weeks ago, I thought it was still in full swing," Ron said, shrugging. "Hobbled into town intending to gather information on what was going on and found myself being attacked. 'Course, as it turns out, it wasn't Death Eaters or Snatchers or what not."

"And why would _they_ be attacking _you_ ," Harry accused.

Ron winced. Never would he have thought that _Harry_ believed he'd given the information willingly. Never would he have thought that his best friend, ex best friend, would think he hadn't gone done fighting tooth and nail and every drop of blood after that. But Voldemort had taunted him about it. Told him that he'd enjoyed seeing the look of betrayal on their faces as he voiced his source.

It didn't matter the dark curse Voldemort had used to rip the information directly from his mind; all that information had still fallen into Voldemort's hands because it had come from Ron. And that was enough. It was enough for the whole country to see him as a traitor. For Harry to see him as a traitor.

He shook himself. Think. Harry wouldn't think that. Harry might imply it though, if he was angry enough, but he would never believe Ron was a traitor. Harry was furious and what did Harry do when he was furious? He said the things he thought most cutting. He cut and cut until he got what he was looking for. Remorse or information or revenge.

Harry wasn't interested in an explanation or an excuse.

But he still had to try.

"It's not what you think. None of it is. I would never…"

"No one else knew," Harry hissed. "No one else knew about the plan. I want the truth, did Voldemort get the information from you?"

The bottom line question. The one everyone around them wanted to know. What his family probably denied. What his best friend had probably been asking himself all of these long months.

It tore him in half to say the words, but he couldn't lie to Harry.

He could never lie to Harry.

"Yes."

The spell that sent him flying backwards, then rolling, had not been Harry's. He knew because it had come from another part of the room. One of the watching spectators, whose murmurs had steadily risen in volume throughout their conversation. Whom he and Harry had been ignoring.

Ron threw up a shield, just in time for another round of spells to slam into it. His blind eyes searched out Harry's shadowy figure, but he knew Harry wasn't there. Sensed on a fundamental level that Harry wouldn't be able to take the truth of the matter. Harry had fled because Ron broke him. In a way that leaving hadn't quite managed. A last sickle of their friendship hanging on for dear life.

He could have lied. Could have come up with excuses. But there were none.

Dragged snarling and biting and every other form of savagery Ron could muster up had done nothing to stop being pinned down by magical bounds and Voldemort tearing at his mind to take his memories.

To create a Hocrux, a portion of soul, a copy of ones memories and person, required murdering an innocent. It apparently didn't need Ron to murder an innocent, bound and tied to a marble slab, Ron had been forced to listen to a child being hacked away mercilessly by Voldemort. A muggle boy. And then, the man had turned on Ron, blood glistening on the knife and spoke with a calm, almost cheerful manner.

"Ronald, dear, dear Ronald, feel lucky, you have fought well and long and though you are a bloodtraitor, you are a pure blood of remarkable caliber. For this demonstration of strength against me, I give you eternal life and in exchange, I shall have your heart, your secrets, and Harry Potter in my grasp."

And then the knife had come down directly over his chest.

Even the crucio curse had not hurt so bad. Dark magic clawed at his insides, tearing away at everything, and then, for the briefest of moments, Ron was looking at himself. A mirror image of blue light, hovering over him, bound in chains as thick as the ones around his real body. And then that part of himself was yanked backwards, into Voldemort's hands, where a small necklace lay in his thin, white grasp. A white, long opal. As part of Ron's soul was dragged into it though, it began to transform into a deep fiery red, almost like ruby, but more alive with a shimmer of blue around it's edges.

Voldemort's curling, triumphant smile was the last thing Ron ever saw. His world was replaced by darkness. Upon waking, he thought he had died and that they were dead. It had been a relief. To know what was on the other side. To know that it was all over even if it had ended so terribly.

And then he felt it. The missing piece. Something had been taken. Whatever Voldemort had taken from him, Ron hadn't gotten it back in death. Then the familiar taunting voices of Death Eaters had brought him into awareness, realizing that he was still very much alive. Being alive inside the cells once more, Ron felt devastation.

And Voldemort had a copy of all of his memories.

Locked away inside of a crystal.

He wondered what Harry would think of that. Of Ron who had been gifted the knowledge of Hocrux's and their creation in order to destroy one. Yet, after disappearing and being taken prison, had instead had one created? Would Harry think he'd betrayed him after all? That was a hard fact to ignore. Ronald Weasley having a dark object like that out there somewhere, created through murder.

"Did you hear?" Voices whispered.

"A bad one, alright. I knew it all along."

"Can't believe it, he's a Weasley, surely…"

Ron came back to himself. Keeping the shields up, he moved towards what seemed to be the exit. His surroundings were nearly black, like he traveled through ink, the people, grey shadows against those surroundings, to the point that they almost disappeared altogether. Only the many months he'd lived in the dark world let him distinguish between them. Still, everything was guess work, people's faces, where he was at, where he was going.

"Why aren't locking him up?"

"The youngest son was always dark. I've known it all along."

"Harry Potter said…"

The voices went in and out as he moved through the crowd. It parted easily, no one wanting to touch him. Ron squinted, trying to figure out if it would be better to floo out or go through the London exit. And, of course…

"The Weasley's will surely disown him, if they haven't already."

"I never would of thought one of their lot would be a Death Eater."

"He's worse than that," a man muttered. "He's a traitor."

Ron couldn't agree more. He had betrayed Harry the night he lost his temper and walked out on them. He would never willingly give away secrets, but walking away, shouting at them that had been a betrayal. Now though, without the cells he'd been taken to one from the other, with no chains and no bars to keep him locked away. Ron Weasley was not only a traitor, but homeless.

He needed to find Leif. Once he found her then they could travel the outskirts of towns and find a place to work. Get resources. Find Ron's contacts. Then the search would begin. The war was over and Voldemort was gone, but Ron Weasley had one more Hocrux he needed to find and destroy.

His own.

49


	9. Interlude

Disclaimer: I don't own Harr Potter

Interlude one

* * *

Daily Prophet

War Traitor Released!

Most of Great Britain is still holding its breath as the days tick by with no signs of Voldemort. The battle was witnessed by over 300 surviving participants, everyone involved saw the final battle between the dark lord- He Who Must Not Be Named and the Man Who Conquered, Harry James Potter. Still, the fear and apprehension has lingered in the hearts of all survivors since January of this year. Is it really over?

Confidential information has been released about the capture of one of the most notorious War Traitors, Ronald Weasley, who was apprehended by a squad consisting of Nymphadora Tonks, head of the Auror Department, Keegan Lester, Mays Marigold, Frankie Roberts and Danny Prang. Keegan Lester, 25 years of age this past March, was the Second in Command to Nymphadora Tonks, a trusted member of the Order of the Phoenix, and considered highly regarded by Albus Dumbledore before the headmaster was murdered.

In December of 1997, Ronald Weasley is said to have abandoned Harry Potter and Hermione Granger in their endeavor to take down Voldemort and to have changed sides. Many maintain that Ronald Weasley simply disappeared, choosing to run away from the war rather than be on either side. There has certainly been no lack of rumors in Ronald Weasley being 'spotted' outside of Great Britain, though there is no hard evidence to suggest this as truth.

The few facts available must be noted though, a few months after the disappearance of Ronald Weasley pertinent information fell into Voldemort's hands, in some way or another. Information that is considered to only be held by a select few, one of which was Ronald Weasley. And while the source cannot be trusted, let us all remember the words that came straight from Voldemort as he slaughtered dozens of good men and woman at the Battle of Kings Cross: "Thank Ronald Weasley for your failed protection. Thank Ronald Weasley for the eminent defeat of Harry Potter. For it is he who so graciously delivered the boy's destruction into my hands. This country will burn and he and I will watch it."

The release of the War Traitor has the people fearful for the future and what this could mean for the Death Eater Trials soon approaching. Will more clearly guilty men and woman go free as Ronald Weasley has today? While the evidence is scarce, it is no less damning. Ronald Weasley betrayed us, and like his patronus, has taken like a dog and run away with his tail between his legs. Many shall be awaiting to see review of his trial and will most assuredly call for a retrial in this slander of justice.

Journalist for the Daily Prophet

-Ernie MacMillan

* * *

Quibbler

Missing Found!

Ronald Weasley, after going missing at the height of the war, showed up in Diagone Alley two weeks ago. The War Hero, last seen by Penelope Clearwater, was believed to be captured by Death Eaters after he aided in her escape (saving her life in the process). Miss Clearwater, only having recently returned to England herself after fleeing to her grandmother's home in France, makes it clear that she doesn't believe the horrid rumors flying about concerning Ronald Weasley changing sides.

"There were so many of them…" Miss Clearwater needed a moment to gather herself. "Yet he came out of nowhere, came right into the midst of all that, my execution, and used a spell to shove me out of the way of an Avada Kadavra. They took one look at him and… they looked like beasts, animals that caught whiff of meat. Ron, the poor boy, he led them away from me."

It is most likely that Ronald was held against his will, locked up in a cell all this time. The Ministry has found, as history has demonstrated (through the Battle in the Department of Mysteries, at the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, and every personal action since then), that Ronald Weasley has displayed nothing but bravery.

Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole, one of the last individuals to see Ronald before his disappearance, state that if it were not for the timely action of Ronald Weasley within the Ministry getting Mrs. Cattermole out and through the floo, then she would have most certainly been falsely imprisoned inside Azkaban, a place where many innocence met their deaths during the war.

It will be a long journey to recovery, but the Quibbler and its followers hope to extend the deepest gratitude to Ronald Weasley, and hope that if not soon, then eventually he might be well and free of all rumors and nightmares.

-Luna Lovegood

* * *

Witch Weekly

Proud to Announce its First Post War issue!

Word from the Editor

It has been a long time coming and many thanks to dedicated readers that we have risen again after the last year of absence in face of War. We would like to extend our deepest thanks and love to all those who have fought in the war; both the ones who have survived and those who perished.

We have many new columns and like the Phoenix our rebirth comes only after fire and ash. Thus, in the back of each issue you will find updates on those who are still missing and those who have been found. In each issue we will also feature a list of Mind Healers, the ones that we recommend, and those who, in an endeavor to take money from the vulnerable, are fakes. Finally, we have a new column created especially for helping woman and their families get by.

Thank you all for coming back to us. In the past we have made the solemn vow to demonstrate the wonders of woman and their power, to step out of the dark ages, and to bring a sense of style and beauty few magazines can claim. Now, we renew that vow, but extend it with this promise: Witch Weekly is about more than fashion, music, and tips, we are about helping woman everywhere, no matter where they come from or what their blood status is, we have moved passed the dark ages, it is time that we move passed prejudice too.

Your new Editor

-Mafalda Hopkirk


	10. Chapter 7: Break

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 7: Break

"No one else knew," Harry hissed. "No one else knew about the plan. I want the truth, did Voldemort get the information from you?"

A beat of silence.

Then Ron, the blood and flesh and so very beautifully alive Ron, said:

And the schizophrenic delusional who'd been trailing him for months said:

"Yes."

"Yes."

They echoed each other, bouncing around in his head like nails on a coffin. It was almost enough to make him wonder which one he should be looking at. But what mattered was that they'd both said it. Real and delusional. They'd both admitted to the betrayal.

Two Ron's at Headquarters that day. The one walking beside him, arguing with Harry about getting some sleep as Harry tried his best to ignore him, and the one looking rumpled, but relatively unscathed, walking out as if there was nothing in the world wrong with that. Facing him had been a nightmare. His confession a sledgehammer of spells against him. It had been crushing and fury inducing.

Delusion Ron was scowling, glaring down at the real him, the one that Harry had just punched. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it. It was odd. Both of them were familiar to Harry. Defeated Ron who knew when he was over his head and held a white flag up for the whole world to see. The one who couldn't see his own worth. Then there was Fierce Ron. Who didn't care if he was wrong or right, but carried forward through sure momentum and force.

Both of them were traitors.

His delusions and reality.

Neither of them would look at him and then delusion Ron was gone, as if he never existed at all, and Harry was left staring at his very much alive best friend. His traitor best friend who had _left_ him. Who hadn't come back. Who looked perfectly fine. Nothing like his nightmares. The dark eyes and wicked grin of the imagined traitor didn't exist. The emaciated, wasting away form of a prisoner was nowhere to be seen on the full cheeks and wide shoulders. There was no confusion of the amnesiac or weariness of the put upon.

Ron looked fine.

Harry couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle the idea that Ron had given Voldemort everything and hadn't suffered at all for it. Hadn't been unwilling or forced. No. He looked dandy. Fucking flower like dandy, not a hair out of place _FINE_.

He backed away. The crowd broke for him. Fell away like they always did. His chest _hurt_ and Harry couldn't grab it hard enough to make it go away. His breathing was like swallowing stone. He couldn't…

Harry turned.

He walked away.

There was the sounds of spells and anger and a scuffle, but he kept walking. He walked until he floo'd and then found himself sliding against a door that might have been the outside or might have been the inside of his home, but he wasn't entirely sure.

All he knew was that there was no air in front of him and that Ron hadn't shown up to help him like the last couple times this happened. A panic attack. As he clutched his chest and tried to remember that breathing required in and out motions there were tears that lazily lounged at the corner of his eyes.

He woke up later, on the ground.

Passed out.

Blacked out from lack of air.

Delusion Ron was there, crouched in front of him, a worried look on his face. But the moment Harry had his knees under him and was breathing alright, the delusion disappeared as if he'd never existed. Harry had somehow managed to get himself into his home, but when he pulled out the keys or put them in the lock, he couldn't recall.

Ron was back.

Ron was gone.

He'd _left_ Ron at Headquarters.

Ron had been there and Harry had left him! Oh Merlin. Oh shit. Anger and fear warred for dominance and the aching need to see the real Ron again, even the fake Ron was overwhelming.

"Ron," Harry called out.

He always came when Harry called.

But no one appeared. Not leaning against the door or with hands in pocket. Not in front of him or at his right or in any special sense at all.

"Ron."

Nothing.

"Ron!"

He screamed until his throat was raw, but no one appeared.

And the words continued to echo; his delusion of Ron; the psychosis Harry knew was real, couldn't possibly be real had been there beside him as he punched the real Ronald Weasley. Delusion Ron had been glaring down at the real Ron before turning to Harry, words on his lips that terrified Harry.

"Kill him, Harry. Kill me."

* * *

Ron only escaped the hate filled group of rioting witches and wizards at Auror Headquarters because of a fire fairy. She was a pretty little thing. Body fluctuating between red and orange, but hair a vivid blue. A creature of pure magic.

Leif had been anxiously hovering outside for two weeks now. She'd tried to get in no less than five times, he knew, because he'd heard her hovering outside of his barred window, but she had been unable to get passed the wards. Instead she'd been forced to watch and waited for the opportunity. Looking for any signs of her human friend. The Aurors stopped her each time she tried to sneak in with them.

But outside the headquarters was another matter entirely.

When Ron had strolled out, her heart had leaped, beating wildly as she rushed towards him… only to see another human attack him. Upon seeing Ron in distress, the small, but fierce creature threw sparks at anyone who got close to him. She growled and swirled around him, baring blue teeth at the closest human nearby.

Ron took advantage of the distracted crowd. Pushing through and limping away until he'd reached the apparition point. She zipped away from the crowd, flying straight into Ron's outstretched hands.

Then they were both gone.

Away to a new hideout, a new shelter, a new rock.

The new place didn't matter to either him or Leif. The fire fairy had been quick to kiss his cheek as they landed far from the terrible humans. Magically warming him. She seemed to know it was him no matter how he altered the charm on his neck, whether he looked like himself or as he did before the war with no scars, or like a completely different person.

She knew.

The fire fairy was his eyes. Had been for a long time now. She had stuck with him since Dersewel. The first to find him each time he escaped, as if she were somehow connected to him now. She'd been with him when they'd traveled with the werewolves, when they'd fought Death Eaters, when he'd been crawling through the forest. It had been this little fairy that had found him inside of the muggles insane asylum. She had burned through the jacket and the restraints. Guided him past guards. Helped him knock out the ones they couldn't avoid.

Leif didn't mind the running the way they did. She chattered in his ear the whole time. She warned him of strangers coming too close. She mimed signs for Ron when he asked her to. She tugged his ear when there were Death Eaters nearby. She grabbed at his fingers to tug him away from dangerous holes in the ground he couldn't see.

In the last two years, Leif had become his best friend.

All in all, it was no surprise to him, upon escaping the Auror's Headquarters and making their way through a small wizarding town, that Leif insisted on staying with him instead of going in search of her own kind. Ron was free. Leif was free. Neither of them had to stay with the other for survival.

But they did.

And Ron couldn't be more grateful for the company.

* * *

 _Ron is back._

The words had shaken her. Torn her down to her barest parts and sent her flying from Odin's home as if the whole house hold had decided to spontaneously transform in the middle of the day.

Only, when she arrived home, to her apartment, expecting Harry to be there with Ron, it was to Harry looking broken and furious and altogether like the nineteen-year-old he actual was. She knew. In that moment, she could guess what he'd done and Hermione had stepped up to him and slapped him.

Before the sting faded from her hand, she had him gripped in her arms in a fierce hug, her face buried in his chest as she sobbed. Harry had rocked her back and forth until they were a tangle of limbs on the floor.

Who fell, she didn't know, didn't care, because it _hurt_.

She'd lost Ron.

Again.

She'd thought her heart couldn't be broken again because it was still in pieces. Still a mess on the ground, but oh, how Ron loved to prove her wrong. It had somehow wobbled its way into her body again to attack every part of her anew.

Harry told her about the fight. He confessed to his words and actions and of Ron; looking broken but physically fine, there in the middle of the floor, surrounded by people as Harry had fled. Harry stroked her hair as he explained coming to his senses long afterwards. How he'd gone back, but there had been no sign of Ron.

That's when the doorbell rang.

Neither of them had been keen to answer it, but eventually Hermione pulled away and wandered to the door, her wards telling her that it was Kingsley on their doorstep. She didn't need to ask why he was there, she gestured for him to come inside. He did so, looking weary.

"To be honest," Kingsley said, fingering his wand, almost absently. "I'm not sure how to tell you both this without getting hexed."

Hermione straightened, exchanging weary glances with Harry.

"Best to get it out in the open then," Harry said testily.

Kingsley sighed.

"Ronald Weasley was caught two weeks ago. He was put on trial for treason three days ago."

Hermione froze, rising from her seat slowly, Kingsley quickly standing to meet her rigid, tense stance.

"You found him…" Hermione said carefully, testing out the betrayal with her words. "You locked him away and you put him on trial without ever informing us. Without letting the people who love him stand by his side, good or bad?"

"Certain circumstances made the verdict rather obvious to Tonks," Kingsley placated. "I disagreed with her, but decided to rush things along to keep the pain at a minimal for everyone. I didn't tell you… because it was one of the conditions for Ron handing over his memories for the trial. The reason you were not informed was because Ron asked that we bar his family from being involved in the court trial in any way and that included you two. There were… humiliating moments displayed in some of the memories. He felt that if he patched things up with his loved ones, that it would be easier to be able to tell or show them in his own time."

Anger welled in her chest, but Harry squeezed her wrist gently, stalling her.

"Circumstances," Harry growled, beside her. "Where did you find him? Was… was he locked up?"

"Recently escaped. He didn't recognize Tonks…" Kingsley said slowly. "They… did things to him. Inhumane things. His fight or flight instincts are in hyper drive right now. As you witnessed, Harry."

Hermione glanced at Harry who nodded slowly.

"He looked right at me and didn't recognize me," Harry said, "I thought… at the time, I thought he didn't care, but…"

Kingsley looked pained as he spoke.

"The first time I went to his cell, everything was bandaged. His feet, his hands, he kept his distance and watched me as if I might attack him at any moment. He didn't relax once in my presence even after he recognized me. It had reaffirmed for me that he was guilty," Kingsley admitted. "Tonks seemed to believe he was innocent, but I… had a harder time of it." The clear shame on his face was obvious, but Kingsley had _always_ been straightforward with them about his fears and concerns and emotions. The man was aware of Dumbledore's tendencies and knew that Harry and Hermione valued him not playing the 'mysterious old man' card. "Despite what Tonks thought, I wanted to make sure neither of you saw him sentenced to death. I wanted it fast. The trial proved I was wrong and… I couldn't be more happy or devastated."

"We should have been there," Hermione said, voice brittle, full of reproach. "You had no right to decide for us what we could handle and what we couldn't. Even if we were barred from the trial itself, we should have been allowed to see him in person. To talk to him and tell him it didn't matter what it exposed or did not expose."

"That was my decision," Kingsley said strongly, for the first time straightening his shoulders and sitting up like the Minister the recovering Wizarding world saw. "If he'd turned out to be guilty of the crimes suspected then it would have destroyed you both. Be angry all you like, but you would not have recovered, and visiting him would have only spiraled you faster."

"Do you know where he is now?" Harry interrupted, knowing that if this turned into a row then they wouldn't be able to get the information. They could always stir the dust later.

Kingsley nodded.

A trill of hope burst forth. Her hand turned where Harry was holding her wrist so that their fingers met, entwining and squeezing with all her might. This was it. They were… Was she ready to face him? Yes. After everything? It was the moment she'd been waiting for. Two years she'd been waiting, searching, aching.

"Ronald Weasley was proven innocent and set free. Where he is at the exact moment, I do not know, but we will be meeting up at least once a week at a bar in London." Kingsley paused, looking as if he were debating something, but at the venomous glare Hermione threw him, he continued. "Being in the Death Eater prison cells has lent him unique knowledge on the Death Eater's habits. He's agreed to give Tonks and I as much information as possible."

The confirmation was like a needle of ice sliding into her skin, trying to suck the blood from her veins. Imprisoned. Left to rot. Then Harry asked the question she was too afraid to put into words.

"Was he there the whole time?"

The folded hands on Kingsley lap clamped over one another.

"I'm afraid Ron didn't make it twelve hours away from you two. There were seven of them. Ron killed three before they took him down, but he went down hard."

Twelve hours.

She knew every moment of that night and the next morning. Ron had left in the middle of the night. She'd screamed for him to come back. Begged. Pleaded. But he hadn't turned. He'd kept walking.

They had waited that night.

At ten, just one after he left, she'd crawled into bed. Neither of them sleeping even a wink despite both pretending otherwise. They'd waited, listening to every branch break and frog croak, with anger and hope in their chests.

At four in the morning, they'd both turned over, staring at each other in dejection. Then at six they'd forced themselves to get up and start breakfast. Normally the act of packing the tent and letting the wards fall happened in a few minutes. They both dragged their feet, both took the longest possible time. It was after the sun was finally rising that they'd finished, looking at each other with dread.

"We should wait," Hermione panicked. "Just a little bit longer."

"Yeah," Harry agreed.

So they'd stood there, as the sun rose. When it was obvious no one was coming, Harry turned sad eyes on her.  
"Hermione," Harry whispered.

"A little longer."

"He knew we were leaving in the morning," Harry said brokenly. "If he was going to be here, he would be here by now."

"We wait!"

So they did. For two and a half hours they waited.

Ron had been captured just as they'd given up hope on him. He'd been taken down, all alone, as they were disapparating away from the only place Ron would be able to find them.

Harry interrupted her thoughts.

"Where did they keep him?"

"Unfortunately, I've revealed all that I am legally allowed to. The trial is confidential, so if you want anything specific, you'll have to ask Ron yourself."

"When are you meeting him?" Hermione hurried to ask, sensing that the Minister would be taking his leave soon.

"Three days from now," Kingsley answered.

"I'm going with you," Hermione announced. Not giving either male in the room the ability to say otherwise.

Kingsley nodded.

"I expected as much. I suppose you'll be coming too, Harry?"

But Harry didn't answer.

Hermione looked over to see Harry staring at the floor, a bundle of tensed muscles and heart strings.

"I don't think I can see him yet."

Her head whipped around to stare at him.

"Two years," Hermione hissed. "You can't see him after two years?"

"It's not…" Harry paused. "Something happened… this afternoon. I need to sort it out. I need to get my head on straight. I'm not saying never… just not this time. You go see Ron. There's a million things you two need to get through too. Not just the three of us or me and Ron, but you and Ron. Maybe taking us on one at a time will be easier."

"Sorting it out would be good," Kingsley said absently. "Avoiding punching and hexing each other would be a lovely alternative."

Three days full of anxiety and fear and wonder and hope and….

* * *

And becoming sick to her core. Apparently. The stress these last three days had ruined her appetite for anything and caused her head to be stuffed to the brim with cotton. She'd wandered around her office like a deranged, oversized gnome biting anyone's head off who dared step within her vicinity. She called out of work the third day and had sat, cold cup of tea and Hogwarts A History on her lap, waiting like an unsprung Weasley contraption on Kingsley to arrive.

Now here she was. One step away from a conniption fit. On the back of Kingsley broom. About to walk in to meet a living ghost. Someone she hadn't dared to hope was alive. Not even her immense dislike of flying could account for the tremble in her legs or the way her spine seemed to have turned to yarn as she walked.

They were heading into the London bar; Cherry Dream. So focused was she on who was inside that she hardly spared a second's thought to how crude the name was. Kingsley led her to the back of the bar, heading towards a young man with dark brown hair, tense shoulders and a freckled face scrunched up, looking ready to bolt. It took her a long moment to recognize Ron under that long brown fringe of hair.

Kingsley gestured for Hermione to scoot in before he himself took a seat across from Ron, causing him to jerk in place, moving as far from the Minister and her as possible while still retaining his seat. The action startled her. She stared at Ron, watching him keep his eyes averted, his fingers holding tight to a salt shaker.

Not moving at all.

Then, finally, Ron tilted his eyes the slightest in Kingsley direction.

"That you, Kingsley?" Ron asked, voice ruff and unsure.

If she'd been holding books, she would have dropped them. Dropped them on this sticky, tile floor of grime and 'good grief what was that smear?' place. Instead she found herself itching to grab his hands and stroke his hair and bring him as close to her as possible.

"It is," Kingsley answered. "And Hermione is here as well."

Ron wasn't looking at her though. It didn't even seem as if he'd heard. He was wringing the salt shaker now, blank eyes taking in the wall and nothing else. There was the tiniest of nods and she caught the familiar blue eyes glancing in her general direction before quickly looking forward again.

"You sure it's her?" Ron asked.

Stunned, Hermione reached across the table to grip his chin and force him to look at her. His eyes slid passed her, not recognizing she was even there. Her grip tightened.

"You listen here, Ronald Weasley," She'd intended her words to come out commanding, but they wheezed out and cracked on every key. "You've broken my heart more than anyone else can fathom. You don't get the right to question _who I am_."

Stubble. Rough and uneven, just like the last time she'd seen him. It prickled against her fingers and tickled along her palm. But the last time she'd touched it, Ron had leaned into her hand. This time, he jerked away, hunching into himself rather than dragging two knuckles down her cheek.

"Hi 'Mione," Ron whispered.

She let her hand drop. The urge, the need, to throw herself into this man's arms, to hit him over and over again, to blast him off the surface of the earth, to caress him and hold him to her, away from the world, it all hit like a spell. Instant and all consuming. She settled for staring at him.

"I'll keep watch," she heard Kingsley murmur. When he was gone, she found there was an awful air between them. She felt suddenly unsure of herself. There was so much time separating them, each minute stacking upon the table, labelled with things they'd experienced and things that had happened to them, things that needed to be said, and things that should never be touched. So much that needed to be dealt with and she found herself digging through those minute blocks, lost at which one to dive into first.

"Are you happy?" Ron asked.

Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"Are…" Salt spilled onto the table. The palm of Ron's hand capped the top, as his other hand continued to wring at the glass shaker. "Are you and Harry okay? Are you happy?"

' _Of course not,'_ one part of her wanted to snap. _'Who grabs my hand and tugs me away from my homework? Who jokes about using the Prefect bathroom to have 'fun?' Who reads quidditch magazines next to me just to keep me warm? Harry is my King, but he isn't my knight.'_

Another part of her. The bitter, lonely, hurting woman left behind on a cold winter night to sob and scream, wants to hurt and stab. Just like in school, it's this part that wins out, because she and Ron can't ever seem to be honest with each other about anything.

"Yes," Hermione says shortly. "It's hard, but having each other makes things easier."

Which is sincere. It's just not what should be said.

To her surprise though, Ron looks relieved. More than that; Hermione realized that part of his body language, part of the tenseness was made up of guilt and shame and it seemed her short word had released him from it just the smallest bit. That, more than his face and voice, told her this was her Ron.

"He's not obsessing, is he? Stuck in his own world then?" Ron pushed forward. More alive now that they had something to talk about. She knows what he's doing. She's all too familiar with this game they play. Using their worry for Harry to not talk about themselves. Today though, she's okay with that strategy of his. So she shakes her head.

"There are times when he falls into it. Nights when nothing I say can get him to cheer up or fix things."

"Then maybe you should get him to break things," Ron says it so casually, so normally, that for a second she forgot where they were and what they were here for.

"Break?"

"It doesn't really matter what it is… just… get a bunch of shit. Noise shit. Glass. Crates. Cheap vases. Just… gather a bunch of junk and tell him to smash it. Get it all out of his system."

"That will work?"

Ron shrugged.

"Can't hurt to try. He tries too hard to keep everything in. He'll think you're crazy at first. He'll be reluctant to even try, but… once he gets going, there will be nothing left. It should help him for a bit."

"Why do you think this will work?" Hermione asked.

"Cause when Harry gets to a certain point, he needs to break something. Physically, mentally, socially… he's got a track record, you know? When he explodes, it isn't pretty and sometimes the better thing to do is to give him something to explode at."

Hermione nodded.

"You'll watch out for him, won't you?" Ron asked.

She was brought back to everything, just like that, the familiarity ripped from her like a babe from its mother.

"I have been watching over him," she snapped. "When you left, it was me who watched his back. And you…" she pointed at his face, stabbing the air between them. "You say it like you're going to leave again. Like this is some sort of visit."

"You…" Ron looked taken aback. "You still want me in your life?"

"I…" Hermione swallowed. Did she? "Yes. You idiot. I still want you in my life." Hermione hesitated. "Slowly. I… what you did was awful. I can't just… forgive you and pretend like you didn't walk out on us. It hurts too much. We fought a war without you. It will take time, but it's my decision on whether I forgive you or not. You can't walk back into our lives and then take yourself out."

There was salt slipping between his fingers. Hitting the table top like the seconds stretching between them. Ron was staring at the shaker now, focusing all of his attention on it, rather than her.

"I'm not really looking for forgiveness. I know that's too much to ask for," Ron told her. "I know better than to think that it could ever be the way it was, but if you need me, for whatever reason, all you have to do is ask. I'm not promising that I won't fuck up, we both know that's not possible, but let me try to make things up to you both."

"It's not just us that you need to make things up to," Hermione said stiffly.

Metal grating against glass sounded as Ron twisted the lid of the salt shaker again and again. Hermione had to fight the urge to reached out and grab it from him. The way those big hangs gripped at it, it seemed to be the only thing keeping him in place.

"If I tried to make up with every person I've hurt then it would never end. There are things that need to get done and making up with them isn't on the list."

"They're your family!" Hermione hissed.

"And keeping my distance from them is the best thing I can do to help them," Ron answered. "My presence will only hurt them."

"You really are a coward," Hermione hissed.

Ron shrugged, like the accusation was nothing out of the ordinary.

"You think Fred and George will want me around? Ginny? Percy?" Ron said, for once not rising to the bait, speaking calmly. "You think they'll accept me back if I say sorry?"

"They love you," Hermione yelled, standing now, outraged.

"I killed my brothers," Ron said simply. Hermione stared at him. This thing that used to be her best friend. "I killed my dad."

"No, no, you didn't…"

"The safe houses. The Hocruxes. The Order Homes and Members. Order secret passageways. Secrets. Names. Places. I gave Voldemort everything. I betrayed everyone and everything I ever stood for," Ron barked out, staring at the wall.

"Kingsley said you were innocent," Hermione breathed, tears pricking at her eyes as she tried to shrink away from his words. "I heard the rumors, I heard Riddle, but… I never believed. Not for a second."

"I was innocent in _intent_ ," Ron emphasized. "Voldemort ripped my memories from me. I didn't give him anything, but he got all the information from me."

"That's not possible," Hermione breathed. "You mean Ligilimency? That's mind reading, it isn't the same as a full memory. If he'd done legilimency for all that then you'd be…"

"Insane?" Ron grinned, just a tad unhinged, tapping the side of his head so hard it looked as if it must hurt. Hermione winced. Ron leaned forward, savage in his bearings. "To have your memories forcibly taken from you is supposed to kill you. Yet I live. To have your memories forcibly viewed, causes you to lose your mind. Yet here I am… somewhat together, having a conversation with you. So what is it? Why would the court decide I'm innocent if Voldemort has the information and yet I am not dead or insane?"

Ron leaned back in his seat.

"Dark magic of some kind," Hermione answered. "One that we're not familiar with. There was only so much in the forbidden section of the library, after all, so much that is available to the Ministry and Auror Headquarters. Most have been destroyed, but there are certainly plenty around for Death Eater families whose lines go back centuries… whose libraries are fully intact or preserved."

Ron sagged, nodding.

"Never seen anything like it performed before, guess that's one of the reason it took so long to recognize it."

"So you know what it was?"

"Hermione, don't. Let it go."

Frustration bubbled up.

"If you know what it was then…"

"Then what? You can analyze it to see what ratio of innocent to guilty I am?" Ron sighed. The metal top broke off the salt. Ron stared at it, the small, edible stones gathered in a pile beneath his fingers. He pulled out his wand, muttering a spell to return it all to its shaker. Hermione almost scolded him, a list of hygienic concerns ready to roll off her tongue. Just to yell at him for something that wasn't important. To direct the all too hurtful conversation somewhere else. Ready to shout and scream over the trivial because it was better than the personal. She wanted to insist that everything to do with him was important. Small or big or stupid or brilliant, it was all important.

But they weren't the same as they were the last time they'd been in each other's presence. Not even close. Hermione had become more withdrawn, not necessarily less confident, but less willing to put herself out there. It was hard to just… jump back into things the way Harry and Ron had always seemed to do after a fight.

Harry took a while to get there, but once he forgave, he did it will both feet diving in.

Hermione though, she was willing to get her feet wet and test things out, but it took her a long time to adjust enough to get into the water. That's why Harry was home and she was here. They would probably get there at just about the same time, but it would be by completely different means.

"This isn't about blame," Hermione finally muttered.

"You just want to know more about the situation to satisfy yourself," Ron told her, not unkindly. "I'm not saying that to be mean. It helps you, to know how it all happens… happened, it makes you feel like you're in control even when you're not."

"It's not about control," Hermione said, trying to keep her anger at bay. "Sometimes knowing everything in a situation gives you solutions that you never considered before."

"I'm not here to fight or to talk about what happened to me after I left," Ron cut in. "It happened and there's nothing either of us can do to change that."

"Fine. There's only one answer I want then," Hermione snapped, "if you won't tell me what happened after then tell me what happened that night. Tell me why you made me choose. Even if the thing was messing with us, what possessed you to leave and force me to make the ultimatum?"

"I wasn't asking you to stop fighting…" Ron said softly. "I wasn't demanding that you not look for Hocruxes or that you just… give up and come away to some distant land where we'd live happily ever after as a couple. I'm not saying I was right or anything, but we both knew Harry's plan was shit and that we needed to come up with a new one."

"And you thought abandoning Harry and striking out on our own was the right choice?" Hermione snapped.

"No! No, not at all. That's the point really. I wasn't thinking. Harry was irritated at me for listening to the radio for signs of my family and I was irritated at him for being irritated at me. And you and him… I was utterly useless there. I wasn't contributing anything and I felt this… need to do something productive. I wanted to check on my family, I had this idea in my head about just… just checking on them. I don't know… going to the shop or the Burrow or Hogwarts to make sure they were okay."

Ron was rambling now.

"And the locket was in my head, egging me on, telling me how useless I was to you two and reminding me of how you two _always_ work so much better together than I have. Harry's so talented and you're so smart and you both have this way of… you talk softly to each other. You get along so well and I… I always argue."

Ron glanced at her, but his eyes quickly darted away in fear.

"When I asked you, all I could think about was how you would never choose me. How, no matter what the circumstances were or how hard I tried, it would never be me you picked. When you did pick Harry, it was no surprise. I… it was confirmation of everything I've ever thought about us."

Hermione flinched.

"That's not…"

"It's _fine_ ," Ron hurried to say. The words hurt more than anything else Ron had ever said to her. "You're Slughorn material, McGonagall's favorite, praised by Moody- the savviest of Aurors, the brightest witch of our age whose impressed every teacher she comes across. Me and you? It never would have worked out. We're too different. I'm the opposite of those things."

Hermione recoiled. The waves of words causing her heart to ripple in a familiar ache. Would the Hocruxes affects never leave her? She pushed back the haunting words of the _thing- he's dead, that's why he hasn't come back, he doesn't love you, why else would he abandon you? You're too_ different _to love each other. He loves quidditch and you can't even get on a broom for fear of falling._ He _makes people laugh, you annoy them. He easily made friends with Harry while it took you_ months _to have someone willing to sit next to you at dinner. He always stands up for you… but how many times have you ever stood up for him? What have you done except berate him?_

A cacophony of endless slurs against her, small reminders about the mistakes she's made… it had taken her and Harry months to find a way to destroy that awful locket. Passing it back and forth like a sadistic game of hot potato where you never dropped it, it only burned and burned and burned.

"It was a mistake coming here," Hermione whispered, trying to will the tears in her eyes to not fall. She stood up quickly, grabbing her bag. Ron stumbled to his feet, mouth opening and closing, looking lost for words. "I don't know what I was expecting."

"I…" Ron hesitated, taking a step forward. "I didn't think you'd show up at all."

"I don't turn my back on people," Hermione hissed, taking a step back. "I don't… don't…. ruin everything!"

Ron's body jerked back as if she'd physically assaulted him.

"I'm not saying… I want to be in your lives," Ron choked. "I'm not asking for forgiveness and if you don't want me around, I get it, but…"

"Your rambling again," Hermione announced, strolling towards the exit.

Familiar long fingers grasped around her wrist. She turned, intending to lash out when she met Ron's blank eyes, tears rolling down his face.

"Take care of each other," Ron croaked, letting go.

Hermione turned, covering her mouth to stifle her sobs as she ran out of the bar and passed Kingsley. The Minister followed her without a word and helped her onto his broom as they took off.

Her thoughts ran rampant as they flew higher and higher into the air under their notice me not charms, two specific concepts, that circled one another like Vultures, tearing each other apart.

 _Ron is back._

 _Ron doesn't love her anymore._


	11. Chapter 8: Routine

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Happy Thanksgiving

* * *

Chapter 8: Routine

One Month Later

Magic was a marvelous thing. During the war… a phrase that felt odd in his mouth and stranger in his thoughts because Ron didn't feel like it was over, but before… when he'd been between Death Eater prisons, he hadn't had a wand. No magic. No means of defending himself. There had been a few occasions when he'd managed to get his hands on one, but they were insignificant instances that never lasted long with a tracker in his neck and Rebastan Lestrange hell bent on hunting him to the ends of the earth.

He would go months sometimes without cleaning up, grime and dirt and blood adhered to his skin as if it was his skin, as if the darkened smears had permanently replaced the pale freckled flesh forever. There had been no transfiguration of trees into furniture, no hunting with spells, no means outside of what he found and how well he could hide in the dark. Essentially, he'd been a muggle, hunted by the wizarding world itself. A pack of werewolves and a fire fairy tracking along behind him.

It was odd, to come back to the world after the war had torn it apart, to find that he was still being hunted in a sense. This time by the good guys. Instead of threats of Death though, there were threats of violence. Meaningless petty little words and people standing too close; shoving and pushing and grabbing for his arms in a crowd he couldn't see.

Driven into smaller towns, into the far reaches where his face wasn't automatically recognized, Ron searched every nook and cranny for a job. Starting first with London, then outside, slowing making his way further and further from everyone he knew. Using magic to cut his hand and wash up, to make his sleeping places less uncomfortable, using it to hunt and to defend and… it was marvelous. It was wonderful and…

Ron had cried the first night, holding his wand and letting it all sink in. Allowing all the things he'd seen and heard to finally settle into facts instead of strange far off stories. After that he'd just kept moving. Never staying in one place too long. In a lot of ways, it was exactly like in the war. The wizarding world was recovering, but for Ron it was all the same.

There had been one thing that was clear though. He could no longer be himself and maintain a living. His picture had been set up in front of shops stating that he wasn't allowed in. He heard his name whispered in every wizarding coffee shop and store a hundred miles outside of Diagone Alley.

Ron had magicked his hair brown and introduced himself, not as a Weasley. Ronald Weasley the redhead Traitor disappeared. Instead Dragomir Despard with dark brown hair, a missing leg, and deep, black scarring around two nearly blind eyes, appeared in his place. A guy who tried to get involved in the war, but who only managed to get himself hacked up. Pretty darn close to the truth, really.

In the many weeks since his exit from Headquarters and far away from Harry, Ron had developed a routine. Get up, wash as best he could, search the current town he'd found himself in for a job, fail, find a local restaurant (muggle or wizarding), wash dishes in the back until he did enough to earn a meal, find a place to sleep that's moderately dry.

Do it all over again.

Once a week, he would apparate to a meeting spot with Kingsley, to see if he had any leads on the missing Hocrux.

"Don't bother to bring it to me. Just destroy it," Ron insisted.

"I have a few trusted individuals looking into how it can be undone," Kingsley would say.

"No, don't bother. Just get rid of the fucking thing."

"Ron, it's part of you. You committed no evil act to bring it into creation, there must be a way for this to be undone. You'll never have the opportunity to be whole again if we destroy it."

' _I'm not planning on being around long enough for that to matter.'_

He never said that last part in their meeting. He'd already been locked up in some muggle asylum, no need for a long term stay in St. Mungo's to make it into his biography too. Ron had fought his war and lost his war. He had no one and no reason to live. His leg would never be returned to him. His eyesight would never come back. He had no family. No friends. No girlfriend. And no one, not even Voldemort, who he could blame outside of himself. There was no future for him, only a way to undo some things in the past, and no path for redemption.

Destroy the Hocrux.

Make sure Harry and Hermione were functioning alright.

Leave his family and friends in peace.

Die somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

Simple, yet effective. Much to anyone's surprise, the thought actual made him quite happy. It would finally be over. The long nightmare would be over. Ron could sleep. He wouldn't wake up to shadows every morning. There would be no phantom pain from his missing limbs. There would simply be quiet and no more hurting. His goal was the only thing that got him to move in the morning. Work to survive, survive to destroy the last tie to Voldemort, then rest. Beautiful, wonderful rest.

Until then though… he really, really needed a job.

* * *

"You want to work in a charms shop?" Mrs. Willow asked. The tone of her voice was incredulous at best, demeaning at worst. She was the sixth shop on Rilen's road he'd sent in an application to though.

"Yes, I don't need my sight to create long term enchantments. I can help you with the products and as long as you tell me where to put things then I can help you with stocking and stuff," Ron ventured.

Ron couldn't see it, of course, but he had a strong feeling she was making an unhappy face at him. The dark shadow figure in front of him sagged in her seat before moving forward. The figure was so vague in his sight that if it weren't for the high, feminine pitch, he wouldn't know if the person was male or female.

"Boy, isn't there someone to…" the shadow figure gestured, voice only a little hesitant. "Don't you have someone to take care of you."

Ron, being passed offended three towns ago, went for bluntness.

"No."

"Well, I mean, surely the Ministry would help you out… financially."

"They don't."

"Really, this sounds more like an inconvenience than any help," the woman muttered.

"You'll consider it then?"

"Well, I mean, really? No one?"

"My families dead," Ron lied.

"A distant relative?"

"Muggles," Ron sighed refraining from telling her about his glamor charm, hidden in his coat pocket, "I wouldn't be able to explain the curse on my eyes."

"Yes, it is very eerie, when you turn ever so slightly, the black marks seem to move. What type of curse was it?" The woman probed, sounding more interested than she had the whole conversation.

"I'm not sure. It wasn't even aimed at me. Just bad luck really. All I know is that I _felt_ my sight leave me. Like it was ripped out rather than just a side effect. You know?"

"Fascinating. I've never even heard of a curse that does such a thing."

' _Your empathy astounds,'_ Ron thought.

"Right?" He said out loud. "I've been asking all around, but no one has any clue, not even the Healers at St. Mungos."

"I wonder if it's a combination of curses or perhaps not a curse at all," the woman murmured thoughtfully, he heard her fingers flipping a page in a book. The curious note in her voice achingly familiar. Though even Hermione would be alarmed by this woman's crass bluntness in putting knowledge above people.

"If I were to work in your shop, you would be able to observe the curse for extended periods of time. You could research its origins and perhaps…" Ron gestured towards the great expanse of her store. "…find something useful for this otherwise unheard of curse."

She hummed.

Ron held his breath.

"I don't think that the benefits outweigh the cost," Mrs. Willow finally said. Ron slumped. She patted his left knee, the fingers more knobbly than he expected, putting her a good few years older than what he'd thought. "I saw the way you came in here. That right leg of yours only barely supports you. If it was only your sight, I think I might have said yes. But the whole package is a bit much."

Ron didn't bother to say that the right leg was a fake altogether or that the charm magically attaching it to his leg began to strain him after a few hours. Instead he slumped out of the shop in misery. One would think that people would welcome a limping, blind idiot into their shop, if not out of pure sympathy, then at least for the laugh of it.

His stomach chose that moment to make itself known.

"Bollocks," Ron muttered.

Leif sighed her agreement from her spot on his shoulder. She was lying down, arms under her head as a pillow, and looking positively bored. She was not hungry, as a few berries from the woods were more than good enough to last her through the night.

For Ron though…

He knew from last night that there were few places to eat in this little town. Fewer who wanted to cater to strangers. They had bust boys and dish washers, thank you very much. Don't need no blind man doing it half arse. Worse still, if it was hard to find food when you had eye sight, both legs, and Harry Potter at your side, then it was fucking impossible with none of those things. Well, he had one leg, at least, that was something.

Ron suddenly pictured himself without either of his legs. Fake legs wobbling and stuttering down the way like flobber worms. It was enough to make him smile, at least even knowing there would probably be nothing to eat tonight.

The great thing about older, smaller towns would be that there usually wasn't a lot of spare money to repair older homes or shops. They lay by the way side, rotting and unused. Ron found his way into one such small place. A shack really. He placed a notice me not charm on the whole building, barrier and warming enchantments, an alarm system so that he would be woken should anyone come close. Then, with the skill of one who had no idea what the transfigured object looked like and could care less, he changed the drapes and table into a makeshift soft lump he generously referred to as a bed.

It wasn't great, but it was better than a cell.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept on a bed. Two years now? Two and a half? It didn't matter. Not really. Ron curled up on the lump, sneezing as some dust wafted into the air. Leif curled up in his hair, her blue flames of hair settling and mingling in his own without burning them. Not matter how close the fire fairy stayed to Ron, she never burned him.

Tomorrow was another day.

* * *

Ron Weasley woke up every morning at five. There were no spells to tell him this was the time, no alarm to wake him, but still, as time moved from 4:59 to 5:00 a.m Ron's eyes snapped open and he found himself in a crouching position. Eyes searching for a door that wasn't there. Ears listening for footsteps that would not come. Heart hammering inside his chest as he anticipated the coming fight.

Leif never reacted to his reactions. Simply tugging his rather unruly, long hair over as if it were a blanket to go back to sleep.

For Ron, it would take long minutes for him to realize his hands were not secured against his chest by a white jacket. That there was no door sealing him inside. No muggles who'd been imperiused into believing Ron was a raving murderous lunatic bent on killing children. There was no Rebastan Lestrange watching as muggles strapped him to their strange device to 'fix' him. No Death Eaters at all grinning down and gesturing towards the electric shock panel.

" _Muggles have the most fascinating methods for dealing with their insane. Wouldn't you agree, Mutt?"_

" _I've talked with a few of the… Doctors? They have some interesting experimental sessions they'd like to try out. I volunteered you for it."_

" _Have you ever been inside an isolation box, Mutt? I assure you, it looks quite mental. It's for behavioral issues, and seeing as you seem to have so many of those…"_

Instead, there was only Ron, at five in the morning, quelling his anxiety attack as he checked the perimeter. There was only Ron as he shook and wavered and tried to get his shit together so that he could look moderately 'not deranged' out in public.

And that's when he noticed. He buckled, slamming into his side and gripping his hip. He could feel the risen skin under his fingers. A slight dampness. Damn it. He made his way to the lump on the floor and put his head in his hands.

The leg had been holding up well, better than Ron would have thought. But the stump just beneath his hip had never healed properly and Ron hadn't been willing to go to St. Mungo's to have it fully examined. It had been an Auror Healer who'd measured and healed him for the prosthetic. No one outside of Kingsley and the Aurors knew the truth about what had happened to Ron while he'd been held captive by the Death Eaters. Most of the wizarding world, including Harry, thought he was a traitor. He hadn't wanted to chance going to St. Mungo's when he couldn't really defend himself.

Ron removed his right leg. It came off with an angry, agitated pop. The skin attached to the prosthetic was swollen. A sticky substance coating the puffy skin that smelled a little bit like blood, but a lot like infection and puss. Ron hated that he could identity the smell of pus.

He rubbed at it gingerly. He wasn't sick yet, that was good, but infection, as he'd come to be very familiar with, tended to lead swiftly to fever, vomiting, and a lot of not moving because fuck it hurts really bad.

He drummed his fingers against the bed lump. He knew, of course, what he had to do, but was stubbornly avoiding the task. He had one set of clothes. One. He had his temporary wand, the clothes on his back, a prosthetic leg with joints enchanted to move when he needed them to, and a pair of shoes that were very nearly worn through already.

Ron took his shirt and undershirt off. Normally his hip bone stuck out, but now, the flesh jutted out a bit. It was probably red or purple. Hopefully not green or black. He'd had a green infection before. All flesh just under the hip bone. Black one too, with puckered skin, portions pulled back like a vivisection to reveal muscle and raw flesh.

Now there was nothing there. The muggles fault, that. Rebastan and Beatrice, when they furiously started hacking away his leg in retaliation for Ron killing Roldophus, had only taken the foot at first. And then, weeks later, when the cells, water and waste had nearly killed Ron off again, it had been cut off just under the knees.

It wasn't until several months later, after having crawled some odd days through a forest and taken out a deranged troll trying to kill him, that Ron had stupidly crashed into a muggle town and been taken to a muggle hospital. The fuckers had declared the entire leg unsalvageable and taken the whole thrice damned thing.

"I'm not losing anything else!" Ron muttered, giving a pointed look to his most important anatomy, dangerously close to the infection. "Anything."

Ron ripped the undershirt into long strips. Luckily it had rained last night. There was a lot magic could do, but it could not create water, only summon it. He let a large bubble of water hover in the air, sanitizing it before letting the rags float inside it for a bit while he cleaned the wound as best he could. Potions was a luxury he did not have, no medicine would be available for this, but scraping away the infection, while excruciating, worked well enough. Securing it in clean rags and making sure he kept his prosthetic off for a week or two would finish the work. Unfortunately, it fucked with his routine, and his routine was the only thing keeping him going.

So, with a few deep, bracing breaths, Ron began the routine he'd learned inside the prison cells. Scraping out the infection. He screamed once, but only once. He wrapped fast, making tight knots in his work before shakily curling in on himself, riding out the pain with white fisted hands and scrunched up shoulders.

He rocked back and forth, a habit he'd picked up from the first cells he'd been in. A tight little circle at the bottom of a pit with bars over it. No space, no warmth, no relief. He knew the rocking didn't help, but it sort of made him feel warmer, like he was doing something productive, as stupid and ludicrous as that was.

In the here and now, the small shack like house creaked around him, half threatening to crash down and kill him, half moaning like most old things. He filled his stomach with fresh water then meditated. Visualizing a chess board in his mind and going through moves in his head. It wasted time and helped calm him down. It had been the only thing that kept him functioning when he'd been locked up. It helped him to strategize, to optimize his ability to think no matter what spell he'd been hit with or what drug had been forced into his skin.

He was meeting with Kingsley tomorrow. If nothing else then he needed to be up and moving by then. He couldn't let himself miss a meeting with the man, else he would sick his hell hound Auror on him to 'check up' on him. Danny Prang had been his Auror Healer, a good head on his shoulders and a strong sense of morals.

* * *

Ron had resented being treated like a wounded animal in the few days he and Danny Prang spent together, but he figured it was probably well deserved. The first morning Ron had been technically 'free' within the Ministry's medical wing, Prang had tried to give him a potion for the pain even when Ron had firmly told him no. He was embarrassed to admit that in the ensuing fight, he'd actually growled at Prang.

Growled.

Like a dog.

A bloody dog.

It was enough to make him go red in the face whenever the guy walked in. Prang, for his part, had gotten the hint and not forced any potions on him despite better judgement in the matter.

"I should have considered what they did to you in there. I'm sorry," Prang had told him later that first morning. "I was proud to be given the privilege of helping you and overzealous in doing so. I didn't stop to think. I'm not going to force you to do anything. I will not give you anything that alters your mind, nothing that makes you sleepy, nothing that will make it difficult for you to move. I swear to you, Ronald Weasley, that I won't betray your trust like that again."

Ron, for his part, had been befuddled and weary, watching the shadowy figure of Prang with caution from the bed they had him in. Upon being taken to the room, he'd pushed the bed into the corner, that way he could have his back and side to the wall and would only have to keep an eye on one portion of the room instead of all around him. Ron heard Prang set potion bottles on the table next to the bed the bottles clinking as they hit wood, gesturing to them with a friendly, inviting air.

"These are antibiotics and medicinal potions for the… infections you picked up inside the cells. They aren't the best ones we have available, but they are ones that won't affect you in any way. I…" Prang hesitated. "The guys and I, the Aurors who witnessed your trial… they wanted me to tell you that if you ever need anything, we'll help you out. You have our respect and our loyalty. Harry Potter may not know it right now, but he couldn't have picked a better Second than you."

Ron cried.

Ron cried like there wasn't another man in the room watching him awkwardly. There was no way that Ron could ever explain just how much those words meant to him. There was no way to explain how, for months, Rebastan Lestrange had been taunting him, telling him that everyone in the wizarding world hated his guts. That Ron had failed at everything he'd attempted to do. That Ron had delivered Harry Potter to his death.

Ron had believed it too.

He'd sobbed and mourned and felt hallowed out for so long, believing that his best friend was dead. Believing that he'd been a part of it, that the information Voldemort had ripped from his mind had ended in Harry's doom. In Hermione's torture and death.

Trying to pull himself together, Ron wiped at his eyes, cautiously sipped at one of the potions and let Danny Prang fill the air with chatter of what was going on in the wizarding world. On the third day though, when most of his wounds had been healed and his amputated leg had been magically reinforced to take the prosthetic leg's hold, Ron had to ask.

"How are they?"

Prang stopped, midway into describing how Tonks, the Head Auror, had refused to detain a werewolf innocently walking down the street, to turn towards him. He wondered what Prang looked like then, what his expression must be.

"Who?"

Ron fidgeted, fisted the blanket in his lap.

"How are Harry Potter and Hermione Granger doing, do you know?"

It was like waiting for an unforgivable curse to hit you. Like knowing that it was being aimed at you and it was coming and yet being too frozen to get out of the way or respond. Prang's figure shifted, his face turning away from Ron, looking anywhere but at him.

"They don't really seem to be holding it together too well," Prang told him. "I mean, Granger has an iron grip on the Justice Department, she's overseeing the War Trials and has shown nothing but ruthless, fair justice upon Death Eaters and victims alike. No one doubts her professionally, but… she's very…"

Prang's hands gestured wildly in front of him, apparently lacking the words to describe it.

"Is she happy though?" Ron whispered.

"No, I mean, she and Potter seem to love each other a great deal, but neither seems particularly happy. Ever."

"Their together."

"Have been since the end of the war, apparently, though rumor says they were together a lot longer."

Ron wasn't sure how to feel about that.

He was happy for them. Jealous, so very jealous, but he'd seen it before he ever left. There was a tenderness they always held for each other. Ron recognized it for love even when neither of them saw it. He'd known, deep down, how in tune they were and how they fit so well into each other's needs. They were both kind hearted too, morally upright and just, always putting forth what was right over what was easy.

"What about Harry?" Ron asked.

"The Man Who Conquered," Prang sighed, "He's been tracking down every Death Eater and Death Eater supporter since the end of the war. Caught Rebastan Lestrange just last month."

So _that_ was where the Death Eater had gone. He'd wondered why the weekly visits to taunt Ron had suddenly stopped. How Leif had managed to slip passed the security when before she'd been stopped by a magical barrier. Good on, Harry.

"Guys wearing himself out though, every time I get a glance at him, he looks a little more like a Inferi. All angles and baggy eyes, yah know?"

* * *

His conversation with Prang days after being released from Kingsley happened over a month ago. The confrontation with Harry after leaving Prang and his escape from the crowds had seemingly set up their relationship from that point on. Kingsley was reluctant to tell him how they were doing, so he assumed that meant 'not too good.'

He wanted to help them, but he needed to stabilize himself first. A job. Money. A place to live. If he could manage that then he could start working towards... well, he could keep moving forward. Ron wasn't sure what he was looking for. Forgiveness seemed foreign, beyond his reach. Running away felt cowardly, like he was choosing not to face his problems and the things he'd done. Staying was… he felt like he was hurting them. A rotten reminder of everything he'd done to betray them. His very presence felt like a curse. He didn't want to hurt them.

He couldn't just waltz in and offer things to them. Ron Weasley showing up and causing drama and heart ache was the last thing they needed. Ron would keep his promise to Harry. He wouldn't approach him unless he or Hermione asked him to or needed his help. There were other things that he could do though, while he was looking for the Hocrux.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Ron wanted to push them though. He wanted to make them venture out into the world. He wanted to force them to make friends and to get involved outside of 'fixing' things. He could be involved even while not being 'involved.' He could help, without anyone knowing that he was pulling the strings.

Ideas wormed their way into his head, moving him across the board smoothly to victory, but the problem was that Ron couldn't start the game yet. He couldn't put any strategies into play until he had the ability to sit in front of the board. His routine was a means to getting a spot in front of the board and yet it was being forcefully interrupted by his stump.

Limitations. There was always a way to bash them into submission and step over them. Ron started magically yanking large chunks of wood from around him. If his body could not handle a leg, then his hands would get a staff. Transfiguration may not have been his favorite subject, and he may not have shown the aptitude in it that Hermione had, but he certainly had not been hopeless.

Midafternoon saw him in a new town. An underground wizarding abode Ron only knew about because Bill had told him about it once. It had been dug out by goblins a few hundred years ago, but the goblins lost it in a revolt. Wizards had built shops and homes inside of the dark abode of tunnels. A sort of backwater town for the more shady of heart. Ron figured that if the good honest people of the wizarding world weren't willing to use a gimp for work then he could certainly find someone with low enough morals here.


	12. Chapter 9: Please Come Home

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 9: Please Come Home

Benedict Rustic knew a 'find' when he saw one. Yet never had he seen a sorrier looking, more miserable piece of flesh than the 'find' right in front of him. Sack of bones the boy was, dressed in rags and scarred up, one eye nearly gouged out with a long scar directly along the iris. Black curse mark crossing over both eyes. He was pacing… well, limping in front of a shop, _glaring_ in the general direction of the owner of 'Wizend Warlocks Wards.'

"I didn't do anything wrong," the boy snapped.

"Soliciting my customers ain't doing something right," Barrick growled.

The boy threw his hands up in exasperation.

"I said bless you! She sneezed!"

"You got no business being in a ward's shop anyhow," Barrick shrugged.

The boy stopped his angry limping back and forth.

"I was looking for a ward, you jackass."

"You were looking were you," Barrick asked, a bit of a chuckle in his voice.

Benedict was about to move on, to turn his back and head in his shop to avoid the drama of the every day, when what the boy said next caught his attention.

"I can see magic," the boy told him, annoyed, "I know a good ward when I see it. Just because I can't see your ugly mug doesn't mean I don't know you exist either."

Benedicts head shot up at that, staring at the boy.

"Ohhhhh, you see magic do you?" Barrick mocked. "A mighty Empath here before our very eyes! For those who have any."

Thunder roared through the air. Lightning struck and in the distance they heard the sound of rain begin to pour. The boy looked up into the sky with worry, his head turning this way and that as if searching for something.

Then the cincher arrived. A small fire fairy made her way to the boy, settling in his hair and chirping in fear. The boy pulled his wand out and cast an umbrella spell, speaking softly to the creature.

"Freak," Barrick muttered, turning back into his shop. The boy flipped the store owner off, but it was too late, the door already slamming closed. Then the boy was moving away. He saw his opportunity closing.

"Boy!"

The boy stopped, turning slightly with his ear cocked, but didn't make a move to come any closer.

"You in need of a job?"

Benedict could see the dirty brown hair had been pulled out in spots. Shorter in other places. From the tugging and pulling of the creature tucked in his hair, he wouldn't be surprised if it was the creatures fault. His clothes were torn in so many places, it was beyond repair. The leg was badly damaged, the way it dragged behind him every third step or so.

The boy nodded, slowly, fully turning towards him.

"What sort of a job?" he asked.

"Hard. You eighteen?"

"Nineteen."

"You telling the truth about that trick of yours?"

Another nod.

"I sell potions. There's a forest with certain magical plants I need. They're hard to find and hard to identify. If you think you can handle it, then I got a room upstairs and somewhat edible food."

"Hot water?"

"It's a potions shop. Everything's hot."

"Deal."

"The gimp won't slow you down, will it?"

"It won't stop me," the boy returned.

"Suppose that's a good enough answer. Get in here, before my shop floods."

He didn't bother to ask the boy's name.

The boy didn't bother to give it.

* * *

His mum's patronus found him asleep with Leif curled up in his hair. The large bear crooned unhappily as it nudged at him, stirring him from his nightmares and pawing at his missing leg. When Ron was finally sitting up, the bear stroked its head against his cheek and neck, making concerned growling noises the whole time. It seemed reluctant to deliver the message, as that would mean its discoveries would vanish with it and that the bear would be forced to leave Ron alone.

Ron was thankful that Patronuses were not capable of reporting back to its original creator. It was an impression of his mother's will and his mother, no matter what he'd done would always forgive him. He was actually surprised it hadn't come as soon as news of his survival came. He had wards against everything but patronuses so that Harry and Hermione could contact him if they chose to.

' _Mama Bear,'_ Leif preened. The little fairy unstuck herself from where she'd entangled in his hair to touch the snout of its nose. Ron rubbed its head, pulling it from where the beast of light seemed determined to stare unhappily at his exposed ribs. It had gotten rather hot last night and he'd taken his shirt off.

"What's the message?" Ron demanded.

It sat back, tilting its head in a way that let Ron know it was reprimanding him for interrupting her scrutiny. Then its jaw unclenched and his mother's voice came out hurt and desperate.

"Please come home, Ronnie. I don't believe the garbage going around. I love you. I love you and never doubt that, my boy. Don't doubt me. Please, come home."

The patronus faded away into nothing. Leif didn't say anything but he could feel the fairy staring at him, waiting for his decision.

"Maybe," Ron sighed. She grinned at him, giving him a peck on the cheek before flittering out of the room and downstairs into other parts of the shop. Ron strapped his prosthetic on and cleaned himself as best he could to meet Ben down below.

For the first time since Voldemort ripped part of his soul from him, Ron recognized another human being. Ben's diminutive shadow figure had become familiar in a way the muggles had never managed to, despite Ron 'staying with them' for so many months. Ron didn't need Leif's excited chatter in his ear or her explanations to know that she'd found the old man in the corner of his Potions shop.

"What are you grinning at, you gimp?" Ben grouched moodily.

"I had a Professor whose grandfather was a goblin," Ron said cheerily, "I think you just might be shorter than him."

Which was a total lie, but the vicious muttering from his employer was quite beautiful.

"This is why I don't hire hooligans. No good, kids, thinking themselves too good for hard work. No respect. None at all."

Ron made himself busy in the back, gathering herbs and separating them into their rightful boxes, listening to Leif's instructions and her chattering. Each box had a preservation spell on it, so that the herbs would remain fresh as long as the spell was renewed once a month. Ben seemed to perform it once a week though, out of paranoia or forgetfulness, Ron wasn't sure.

' _Right one, thorns, careful.'_

Ron nodded, moving his fingers gently over the thick Briar Rose Thorn. Hermione had once told him that Muggles valued the Briar Rose for its beauty and that's why you could find them in so many muggle flower shops. They had no idea the true value of the plant though. It was used most often in glamor charms, the thorns possessing magical properties to them.

As he worked Leif floated beside him, absentmindedly giving instructions while she chattered about this and that. She was in the middle of telling him about a dance the fairies did around muggle newborns, to give them good dreams, when Ben came marching in.

"Boy, you finish yet?"

He needn't have bothered with a fake name with how often Ben used it. Ron took the last set of herbs and squared them away into the last box before joining Ben in the front of his shop.

"What do you need?"

"Need? Need?! I need nothing. What I _want_ is for my worker to earn the money I pay him. Hm? If you're finished, then you can do the world a favor and get out. I need Wolf's Bane like you wouldn't believe." He could feel Leif stiffen next to him, sparks going all over the place as she gestured and fussed angrily, the heat just enough to make him tilt his head away from her. Ben's shadowy figure moved closer, his arm stretching out to point directly at Leif. "Don't you go making a show of yourself, if you set my shop on fire, it will be the end of you both."

The heat only got worse.

"Anything else you want?" Ron interjected, wanting to distance them from Ben before Leif really lost her temper.

"I left some coins on the countertop in a silk bag. Take it with you and pick up some lobsters on the way back."

Ron stopped in his tracks. Ben seemed to understand his hesitation.

"Don't take it to mean anything special, boy, but I reckon if a gimp like you can haggle over the price of potion material then you can haggle down the price of lobster."

Ron grinned, ducking his head down and nodding.

* * *

A different day set with different errands.

Same Routine.

The wooden staff never seemed to dig into the ground far enough. It slid under somewhat, belying the fact that beneath the forest floor of leaves and dirt, there was stone. The hobble wasn't as bad today, but he still leaned heavily against the wood as they made their way through.

Ahead Ron could hear Leif investigating some poor animals burrow, evident in the pissed chittering and twinkle like laugh. It seemed that, the longer he was blind, the easier it became to hear her, even at long distances. Hermione probably knew why that was.

A thorn stuck itself into his back. The medicinal plant it belonged to tearing through the cloth of his bag. He could already feel a warm trail of blood sliding down the base of his back and knew soon his pants would start sticking from it.

Damn the merchant.

They'd said the bag had been charmed to resist wear and tear. Maybe five years ago. Now all the plants he'd separated into anti-contamination spelled bags seemed intent on discovering every small hole within the knitting.

The air was cooler now, sitting on his skin like dew, where only an hour or so ago he'd taken his jacket off to avoid the heat. It meant the sun had set.

Whether the sun was at its height or the moon was, it didn't affect Ron in the least. His sight, what very little was left of the meager shadows, always remained, no matter how dark he suspected it was. During the day, he was a stumbling, blind fool, but at night? At night, it seemed, Ron had the advantage.

When he'd told Leif about it, she'd told him it was because Ron didn't see objects or people, 'shadows' as he called them. He saw magic. It was why he could never see the muggles, only the softest traces of magic keeping them alive. It was why muggle towns were completely invisible to him. The stronger the magic, the more Ron could see. It was why he saw patronuses so clearly, why he could see Leif.

It was also why he couldn't see objects at all unless they had a spell on them. Why he stumbled into walls and tripped over stuff all the time. Ron's sight, his ability to see had been stolen completely, and been replaced by an ancient magic. The curse placed on Ron was one designed to be consensual. It was ancient magic that required the caster to willingly murder another human being.

Ron had killed no one though.

He'd been chained up, inches from death.

Voldemort had done the killing.

The fucker had murdered a boy, younger than Ron, and forced Ron's soul to split. It was an action directly against the magic's intentions. Against how it was supposed to work. Ron still couldn't figure out how Voldemort had forced it to work at all. But he knew the magic had known. He'd felt it. Even as Voldemort had cursed him, the ancient magic had sought to condemn the caster, it had been unwilling in its work and when Voldemort forced it anyways? Something had gone astray.

He shook those thoughts from his head. If he thought on them too long he ended up brooding. Brooding never led to good things. It led to obsessively looking for the item Voldemort used to seal part of his soul away. Which led to failure. Which led to depression. Which really didn't help anyone.

In any case, the forest around him was alive with magic. He loved working in the forest of Tiden because of this very fact. Every branch lit up under his sight, the line of magic feeding through like blood veins. The trees were magical.

It left Ron feeling, for the first time and well over a year, that he could _see_. Of course, every mile or so that attitude had him crashing to earth over a couple different rocks and dead branches with no magic at all. Leif getting a good chuckle out of it before coming to help.

The list Ben had given them today was long.

Poisonous Angel's Trumpet, flowers found at the base of Ranger trees, whose moss exuded toxic gas. Easy to find. Hard to get. Boom Berry was the opposite. Used for restorative potions. Hard to find. Harder to get to. Fluxweed was the last of the ingredients, but might just prove the most annoying. Ron knew, without Leif telling him, where it was located. It was in the center of a lake just two miles from where they were. It was a central ingredient in making Polyjuice. Most of his list was already gathered in his bag, but these three were located deeper into the forest and ones he'd reserved for last.

' _The dew smells like honeysuckles,'_ Leif chirped _._

As Ron turned to reply the world shattered.

Ron was thrown off his foot, staff clattering to the floor. Something hot and wet spattering across his body as he hit the ground, sliding with the momentum of the fall.

' _Duck behind tree!'_ Leif shrieked.

Ron didn't ask questions. He just did, trusting the fire fairy completely. He forced his prosthetic under him and launched himself behind the closest tree, dragging branches and debris with him. His wand was in his hand, casting notice me not charms even as Leif settled into his hair.

It was breathing.

A snarling, heavy handed breathing of something a hell of a lot bigger than the clearing he'd just been in. Part of the 'boom' had been trees toppling. A sharp scrape, like teeth against metal, caused his jaw to clench. Whatever it was had to be big enough that its claws had easily torn through hundreds of years of undergrowth to get to the mountainous stone floor the forest had broken through and developed on.

' _Dragon,'_ Leif breathed.

A metallic smell shimmied up his noise. Blood. He hadn't smelled it this strong since being locked up in the Death Eater's holding cells. Bodies of muggleborns and half-bloods lying inside and outside the cells in burning mounds.

Hot sticky _blood_ was all over him, between the webbing of his fingers, trailing down his face. Sliding down his chin and down his chest. Everywhere. Ron shuddered, trying to keep the weight of bodies off his chest, the dying grasp of the old man from his ankle. They weren't there. It wasn't real. Get a grip.

He was in the forest.

Not left for dead in a pile of bodies.

The Forest!

Ron breathed slowly, coming to himself at the same time the dragon began feasting. Jaw clamping tight to crack bone. Wet smacking and the soft thud of leftover flesh hitting the ground. It was horrific, but so unlike the sounds of the prison cells that Ron was able to shake off the leftover memories the blood had brought with it. Above him, Leif was humming soft reassurances, her voice a constant pleasant thrum of warmth.

There was another sound though.

Small.

Indistinguishable almost.

Tiny, fearful gasps.

He reached above him to take Leif in his hands, large fingers gentle in experience. She glided warmly over them, sitting on his knuckles. Silently, he gestured towards the creature behind them. The small, magical face beneath him nodded slowly.

She flitted out from behind the tree. He waited. Listening as it continued to feast. Eight feet? Ten feet away? It was close enough that Ron could feel it's hot breath as it curved around the tree. Feel droplets of blood and saliva hit the side of his cheek as he tilted his head to hear better.

' _Left.'_

He didn't question. Just moved. As quietly as possible. He and Leif had done this a thousand times before in their escapes. Staying one step ahead of the Death Eaters by trusting in each other.

Besides…

The racket was loud enough that he didn't have to worry about noise, but the fear made his movements stiff and slow as he moved left. Leaves crunched under his knees, making him wince. The undergrowth crawled with worms under his fingers as he moved on his hands and knees, dragging the prosthetic of his right behind him.

The ground gave way beneath him. Ron choked on his spit as, hands first, he plummeted down a steep hill. Sticks and stones stabbed at him as he tumbled head over feet. He slammed into a tree. The breath was knocked out of him and as his foot dangled. The bark beneath him was dying, magic only barely illuminating the sickly tree. It had been uprooted, meaning the steep hill wasn't a natural occurrence. Which also meant that this dragon might not be the only one in the area. Ron made to untangle himself from the roots and branches, when hot air slid down his neck and the back of his shirt.

' _Don't move,'_ Leif whispered, too late.

The metallic smell hit worse this time. Sticky, hot liquid fell atop his hair, but Ron refused to look up. Refused to move. To acknowledge that it was right above him. Then, the sensation of a dog's nostrils (only a thousand times larger), touched his back. He could feel it _snarling_ against him. Long, sharp teeth raised, the skin pulling back as its hackles raised.

His mind raced back to when he lost his leg. The splintering of bone. How the agony never ended, his flesh and femur raw and throbbing like its own heart. A steady thrum of pain, pain, pain. A gapping mess of thick pooling blood from a knee cap that no longer supported a knee, but open air. The pain threading until he was aware of every muscle twitch and fingernail, of how the magic slicing into him would turn bright blue as it met his skin. Black then blue. Black then blue. Over and over.

Would it be more or less painful to be ripped in half by a dragon? Well, it would be faster, if nothing else. Ron closed his eyes. It snapped, jaw clicking, so fast Ron didn't even feel the air of the motion.

Just as fast, it recoiled.

As if Ron were a snake that bit it.

' _Follow!'_

Ron didn't need to be told twice. His head jerked in Leif's direction, flying downhill. He threw his leg and prosthetic around the trunk holding him in place and let himself slide/fall down the steep incline. Undergrowth turned to rock under his fingers. All traces of the magical trees thinning until none existed. Ron was thrown into darkness.

And then the rock ended into empty air.

He didn't have time to scream as he plummeted. He fell ten, twenty, forty feet before hitting water. Thick water, vines and soft water plants gripping at his arms, mud weighing his body down as he kicked out. The metallic smell became overwhelmed by dirt and earth, salty water scratching against his skin in a way clean spring water never did. His right leg dragged him underneath the water, the metal joints and plastic catching on whatever plant grew here.

Ron reached down and released the clamps, the magic hold loosening at Ron's familiar touch. With it off, Ron swam to the surface, gasping in fresh air. Ron lifted his bag out of the water.

"Leif?!"

' _To your right.'_

Ron turned, relieved to see her small features far above the water, safe and sound.

"The dragon?"

' _Up there. You smell wrong. Like poison.'_

"Huh," Ron replied, for lack of a better response. It made sense, really, Leif probably hadn't mentioned out of politeness. He wondered if it bothered her. He knew that, after she'd found him again, after what Voldemort had done to him, she'd cried. He remembered her small wails inside the muggle prison- rather, the insane asylum, when she'd come to rescue him. Mewing sounds that had been words, but so mangled by grief he hadn't understood them.

He wasn't sure when or how they'd agreed to travel together. It seemed to sort of just… flow in that manner. They'd saved each other, during the war, and both had been left alone. The fire fairies that had been Leif's family had been wiped out in the cells. Treated like items rather than creatures, locked in lanterns and used to light hallways as if they were an accessory rather than breathing, thinking creatures.

They'd worked together while on the run, keeping each other company. At first, it was just until Leif found a group of fire fairies to approach, but eventually it became mutual understanding. She guided him in the darkness and warmed him in the cold, Ron kept her safe from the rain and water and dampness.

Ron waded out, the mud like water 'popping' as he lifted himself from the muck. Leif peered at him doubtfully, eyeing her normal spot on his shoulder like it was diseased. Ron grinned, spitting out dirt and muck as left over pieces crunched inside his mouth.

"What's wrong, Princess? Afraid of a little dirt?" he teased.

Leif turned her head, sticking her nose up in the air before flittering away. Ron chuckled, hefting the bag the rest of the way out, hoping beyond hope that the bags meant to keep the plants away from one another might also be waterproof. It felt somehow heavier than before, but Ron chucked that up to how exhausted he was.

There were few trees around, which meant that the path ahead was nearly all darkness. The rough stone suggesting that they'd taken a turn onto the rougher side of the mountain path. They'd left the magical forest. Ron was in darkness again. He pulled out his wand, thankful it hadn't become lost in all of this mess, pointing it at the general direction of his prosthetic.

"Accio… leg!?"

Nothing happened.

"Accio prosthetic."

A splash sounded. Ron reached out for the fake leg, but missed, the contraption hitting him against the chest. Somewhere far off, he heard Leif's twinkling laugh. Grumbling, Ron washed himself up as best he could before summoning his walking staff.

Eventually Leif returned and they made their way down the mountainside. Trudging his way to the village proved more difficult than the rugged terrain. Pot holes and unexpected objects strewn about hazardously. Leif guided him fairly well though and they managed to find Ben's shop.

Exhausted, cranky, and with leftover mud, blood and saliva dried on his skin, running into the old shop owner was the last thing he wanted for the night.

"You get what I want, gimp?"

Ron shook himself like a dog, leftover mess hitting the floor and dirtying the pallor room. Ben, who'd been in the back room stirring a potion, came out muttering darkly at him.

" 'ello Ben," Ron greeted.

"You look worse than usual," the short man growled. "And _your_ bag with _my_ stuff looks even worse."'

"Your concern is touching. We ran into a dragon. What survived, survived," Ron told him shortly. "I'm going to bed. Anything else you need, I'll get tomorrow."

Ron walked into the supply room and traced his fingers along the table. Feeling that it was empty, he dumped the contents of the bag onto the table.

And stumbled back.

A ball rolled onto the table. A glowing, very visible ball.

"Leif?" Ron called, walking closer to it. The ball uncurled, a face peeking up at him. The small creature looked familiar, he was pretty sure that he'd at least seen a picture of it from somewhere. Probably Hagrid's class.

"Hey, little guy," Ron murmured. It was shivering. Its fur matted and it looked to be clutching its arm. It looked sort like a monkey, but bigger framed. "It's okay," Ron added.

Leif had wandered in and her feet were hovering over his shoulder, hand on his ear lobe as she peered down at the small creature. Then with a heart broken wail she flew down and cuddled it. It cried, chittering as it drew the fairy to itself.

 _'Baby.'_

"How bad is his arm?" Ron asked.

Leif muttered to herself, too soft for even Ron to hear.

"If I fetch the supplies, can you bind it?"

Leif made a noise of approval before making something akin to baby talk, her fingers lighting up. The creature crooned sadly, but its curled ball moved just the tiniest bit closer to Leif. Ron smiled, tapping his wand on the table and summoning supplies; a healing salve, bandages, even a few sticks that might make for a decent splint. Leif continued to speak in soft murmurs as Ron got comfortable in one of the nearby chairs.

He'd been more tired than he thought for the next moment Leif was tapping his cheek to wake him up and there was something curled up on his lap. He peered down at the creature, its big eyes looking up at him. Every hair on its body visible to his eyes.

It was rare that a creature had so much magic that he could see it in its entirety. Even those creatures that were considered magical, like the dragon from today, were more fantastical than anything. They were natural creatures that had gained a reputation by the muggles of being legends, but they didn't actually have any magical properties. Goblins, Thestrals, Sphinx, and Centaurs all had magic in them, but Griffins, Hippogriffs, and even dragons were natural creatures with few extraordinary magical ability outside of sheer size and oddity.

This creature though, it was lit up like Neville's old memorable. Ron tucked it into his arms, gingerly getting up, both because he was sore and because he didn't want to jostle it.

"Is he poisonous?" Ron asked.

Leif kicked his ear, nestling down into his hair with a firmness that settled the matter.

"Alright," Ron muttered. "I was just asking in case I start choking in the middle of the night."

Still, he wondered what the little guy's magical properties were.

He figured he'd find out eventually.

Along with what the creature actually was.

77


	13. Chapter 10: Of Names

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 10: Of Names

Odin found him first. Out of all the people who Ron had come to know during the war, he would have pegged Jagged Tooth to find him before anyone else. The werewolf Alpha came strolling into the shop as if Ron hadn't changed his name and his looks and his wand and… everything. He strolled in like he owned the place and grinned savagely over in his direction despite Ron not being able to see it on his face, he could hear it in his voice. Was familiar with the wild man enough to be able to recognize him the moment he opened his mouth.

"Been looking good and hard for you, Spitfire."

Ron's tea came dripping out of his mouth and his nose in his surprise, making a mess of the counter he leaned over, and he glared at the man before looking around for Ben to make sure his shady ass wasn't listening in.

"Are you out of your mind?" Ron hissed in exasperation. He didn't bother to ask how Odin had found him. The man had spent a lifetime finding werewolves who didn't want to be found to help them. Still, he found himself limping over to the man throwing his arms around him, and felt the smaller man return it, nearly taking him off his feet.

Strong arms set him down then pushed him back, pulling his bangs out of his face and fingering his eyes, trailing along the black curse mark before finally leaving him. Odin growled, the sound deepening into a snarl.

"That bloody dark lord do this to you?" Odin demanded.

Ron nodded once, sharply, before gesturing for Odin to follow him. Ron gently prodded Leif, who'd been slumbering on a pile of napkins, undisturbed by Odin's arrival. Her blue hair flared waspishly as she woke, her dark mutterings and a smack to his finger his reward for waking her.

"Can you watch the shop for a moment?"

When she spotted the werewolf, she fell off her pile, zipping into the air and hovering half in agitation and half in relief, her mutterings turning rapidly into a rant.

"What's she saying?" Odin asked, sounding amused.

Ron shrugged. Leif was speaking too fast and too emotional to understand.

"Something about trying to recruit you, but not being able to find you."

"That's why she sticks to you, isn't it?" Odin leaned forward, saying more gently. "She's lost her territory and outside of those lands she's got the navigational skills of a wingless Griffin in a swamp, but she can find you."

"It's more complicated than that, but yeah, that's one reason."

Leif flew forward, hovering in front of Odin's figure, she looked upset. She pointed at Ron.

' _Taken from me. Again. Split. Dark Human split him.'_

"Splinch?" Odin asked, the shadow figure turned to him.

' _SPLIT!'_

"It's complicated. More importantly though, it's dangerous. Leif, please, can you watch the shop for a moment?"

She began to spark.

"I remember that, mate, I'm pretty sure it means…" Odin started.

"You're the best!" Ron called, pushing Odin forward, towards the upstairs room he rented from Ben. "Come warn me if Ben comes back!"

Furious chittering answered his words. Ron grabbed the staircase's railing, one he'd wrapped in magicked string the first week he'd been here after ramming his solar plexus into it three separate times in his confidence of magical living space. Bens magic seeped into every nook and cranny of the first floor, but everything above was left nearly untouched outside of a few picture frames.

As they left the safety of first floor, his steps became more unsure, more cautious. He leaned heavily on the railing and tried to subtle reach out with his right hand to touch the other wall. He could feel Odin's eyes on him though. A silence sitting heavy between them as he could practically hear the gears in the Alpha's head spinning rapidly. Without a word, the man's arm came up to hook into his own. Odin took the pressure off his leg, supporting him fully as they moved down the hall. It wasn't until they'd made it inside and Ron cast the 'no sneak' spell that the man spoke.

"How long have you suffered under _this_?"

Ron sat down on the floor of the room, atop the sparse blankets he'd been using for a bed. The baby creature was curled up, asleep, and Odin made no motion to question its presence.

"The same night you broke in to free those prisoners," Ron told him. "I could hear you guys… Jane. Thomas. Samuel. You. It was the night I killed Nagina with Bellatrix's dagger. Did you know she laces it with Basilisk venom? She was always bragging about how a single nick could kill a man. It was sheer dumb luck I was able to stab the damn thing with it. It bit me, you know, it's the only reason why I was able to stab it because it bit me."

Ron laughed, but it came out slightly hysterical.

"That's supposed to be lethal, you know? The snake. I was completely blinded. Pitch black and hurting so bad from the curse Voldemort hit me with that I could barely move. He had me on the ground and the snake wrapped around me, tightened around my arm and bit me."

Ron raised his hand, showing off his missing finger.

"It's lethal, yet all I lost was my finger because Voldemort split me not fifteen minutes before hand. To get to Harry. Tore everything I've ever seen from my body, took a piece of my soul and sealed it inside this…" Ron gestured at his neck. "Some stone he put on a necklace. It was all over for me. I was blind, crippled, subdued… there was no bloody way I was getting out of there."

"So how did you?" Odin asked. That had always been the great thing about the werewolf. Here he was, rambling away, making nearly no sense, and yet he was acting like Ron was being reasonable. Not some raving lunatic.

"One of you guys," Ron told him, the gratitude he felt would never be able to be expressed in words. "One of you hit Bellatrix with a curse. She fell. Her dagger hit the ground by me. I reached for it. Merlin's saggy arse must have been feeling right sorry for me because I grabbed the hilt instead of the blade. Stabbed it into the snake."

Ron shook his head.

"Months we spent searching for some way to safely destroy the Hocruxes and at the worst timing anyone could possibly imagine, I manage to scrape my arse along and find myself such a weapon in the last scenario anyone could possibly come up with. I still can't fuckin' believe it. There was _so much_ piled against me that night."

"I think it's more than just luck. There's a reason you earned the name Spitfire," Odin said quietly. "But what of you? After that night, I couldn't find you, and I looked. I looked everywhere for you."

"I was taken to the execution block," Ron told him.

"Bristol's Gallies?" Odin asked, thinking of the pile of frozen bodies under the magical alcove of water.

"One and the same. I wasn't sane there. I was this… thing left behind by the curse. I don't even remember it very well, though I know Remus Lupin was there. They kept him in the same cell as me. I wasn't me anymore."

"Then what happened? How are you…?"

"Sane?"

Ron shook his head. His fingers touched his chest, trying to figure out how to word what happened that night in the lake. How to explain how cold he'd been, how desolate and hallowed out he felt, how aware he was of the part of his soul he was missing.

"I remember hitting the lake," Ron told Odin. "I remember it closing around me. Lupin was next to me and I… I grabbed his hand and… I remember the lake freezing over me. I remember breathing in water and ice. I feel like I died."

"I saw the Gallies. It's hard to imagine anyone surviving that," Odin grunted.

"It's hard to explain, but…" Ron's fingers tapped against his leg. "I remember seeing fire in the sky."

"Leif?"

"I don't think so. At least, she claims she hadn't found me again until after this happened, and it was too big. Way too big. This thing of fire… it hit me inside the lake and it was like…" Ron chewed his bottom lip, absentmindedly petting the baby creature that had crawled himself to his side. "For just a second, I thought I was ash, that it had burned me down to my core and there was nothing left of me. Then I was above the lake, on the shore, crawling out of the ice."

"I can not even begin to contemplate what that means," Odin admitted. "I have never heard of anything like it."

"Here's the odd bit," Ron picked up the baby, putting him into his lap. "I came out sane. I was suddenly there, not all the way, I can still feel my missing piece, but I was so much more aware than I was before. I don't feel… unhinged anymore. Before, when I was inside that cell? There were days where I needed to kill Lupin because his magic would heal me. I needed his blood. That's where my thoughts were after Voldemort split me. I was out of my mind, Odin, I couldn't tell friend from foe… I wasn't me."

"Then this fire healed you."

"I think it's more like it stretched over the wound and covered it," Ron admitted. "There are times when I start to lose it again. When the hollowness overwhelms me and my thoughts start to become odd, disconnected and dark. When I start to resemble the creature in those cells."

"We'll find a way to permanently fix it then," Odin announced. "The pack still owes you their lives, Spitfire, if you hadn't released us then we'd still be in those cells. I promise you that we'll do what we can to help you."

"I appreciate it. The important thing is finding the piece Voldemort took from me. If you can track down the necklace, the blue stone tinged in red, then I'll take care of the rest."

"You know of a way to make yourself whole?" Odin asked, suspicion trailing his words.

Solemn, but determined, Ron bluntly told him the truth.

"No."

"I will search for this necklace," Odin said slowly, "but I will not give it to you until I have also found a way to end this with you intact."

"And if this magical band aide starts to fade?" Ron growled. "Will you make me live like that?"

The shadow figure turned its head away from him.

"Look at me when you condemn me," Ron hissed. "Don't hold on to it for your own selfish wishes because you think your helping me. If the fire goes out, destroy the stone, let me die."

"The fire won't go out," Odin insisted.

"We don't know anything about it," Ron gestured at his chest. "Not one blasted thing. It could go out tomorrow for all we know."

"Or it could last a hundred years," Odin said. "You're right. We don't know anything about it. One thing is obvious though…"

"And what's that?" Ron asked, tired all of a sudden.

"I think I know what you're missing. Sitting here, talking to you, it's obvious what part was locked into that stone."

Ron stilled, glanced at Odin's figure in surprise. The man had moved forward, his magical core now inches from him.

"You haven't raised your voice once since I've gotten here," Odin said carefully. "You're mad but… your so subdued. Your passion is just… gone. You move about quietly. You state the facts but there's so little emotion behind it. The strategy is there, you're making plans like you always do, thinking five steps ahead, but the rashness is gone, the impulsiveness. I bet you haven't even left this building since you settled in."

"I've gone to gather herbs," Ron protested weakly.

"Your fighting spirit is gone," Odin said, his voice oddly strained. "The wildness about you, the passion, the savage resilience that made you kin to us in so many ways… that is what's been taken from you."

"I can still fight. I have fought. In the asylum, on the streets… He didn't take that," Ron insisted.

"Maybe, but I think I know why your arrest wasn't in the papers now."

"I shouted at Tonks," Ron continued. "I screamed at her. It's not all gone."

"Were you shouting because you were angry or to be heard?" Odin asked.

Ron didn't reply.

"We will fight for you, Spitfire, even if you can't see how much its needed."

Ron ignored him, watching as the baby creature yawned widely, blinking up at him as it began to wake up. What did his passion mean to him? Vaguely he realized he felt less. Not as bad as in the cell before the lake, but he was less of a person than before. His passion though? That didn't sound so important.

"How are the others doing?" Ron asked. Odin took pity on him and accepted the change in topics.

"Their doing well. Thomas is working with Hermione Granger to attain rights for our kind." Ron stiffened at the name, unsure if Odin was even aware of his real name. "There's going to be a presentation in front of the Wizengamot in a few months' time. Their building a case for the support of werewolves and why they deserve rights."

"I heard the Wizengamot was decimated by the war," Ron murmured, trying to not show just how much Odin's words had affected him.

"They were. Half of its members have either died, been imprisoned, or have 'retired.' It's a whole new Wizengamot, which is one of the reasons we have a chance," Odin noted. "Tiberius Ogden is the Chief Wizard now too."

Ron remembered the man. He'd resigned in protest when Dumbledore had been removed due to his insistence that Voldemort had returned. Sirius mentioned once that the man was a loyal friend to Dumbledore and that meant there was a good chance the man would be siding with them in concerns to the werewolves. Odin continued.

"There is something that I wanted to talk to you about, in concerns to the presentation."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Miss. Granger suggested we present our battles against Deaths in the same manner prisoners have been presenting memories in court."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, perplexed. "Present memories?"

"Right," Odin whispered, "you haven't been around. The Unspeakables have created a pensive that stretches across the entire center of the court room. Guilty parties are being given the opportunity to prove their innocents by providing memories."

"Oh," Ron muttered. "That makes sense. I thought they only asked for my memories because they were doing a small private trial."

"You were put on trial?" Odin said sharply.

"So you don't know who I am?" Ron said quietly.

"I've never needed to know because I know you," Odin told him. "Whether or not its Spitfire or…" Ron felt fingers trace his chest where Rookwood carved into him. "Whatever names you've gone by, it doesn't matter."

Ron grinned.

"Thank you, Odin."

"Speaking of names…" Odin's voice turned amused. "Dragomir Despard?"

Ron blushed, remembering one cold night in a cave, talking about favorite quidditch players around a fire. Dragomir Gorgovitch, the Chudley Cannons Chaser, had come up more than once in his defense of the team.

"We should get back downstairs," he muttered. "Leif can't watch the shop forever, you know."

He heard the werewolf chuckle. He set the baby creature back onto the blankets beside him and heaved himself off the floor, but as he reached for the doorknob entwined with magic string, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

"With the court room pensive for the Wizengamot presentation," Odin said, voice turning serious once more, "it will show you in battle, aiding us, in some cases leading. You were at the core of many of our strategies." Odin stepped forward in that way that the pack had always done. Too close, too intimate. Ron fought the urge to step back. "And the night we fought Rebastan, you were the only human there to witness the battle, would you be willing to give your memory, if the need arises?"

Ron paused. It would mean he would have to step forward and show what he was. He wouldn't be able to hide behind a glamor anymore. He would have to reveal the monster he'd become. A ball of fear unfurled inside of him, cresting the edges and threatening to suffocate him. He swallowed hard and nodded.

"If you need the memory, I'll give it to you, and I'll stand by you."

The hand squeezed again, tugging him into a hug.

"Split or not, you are our Spitfire," Odin said proudly.

The rapid heartbeats of the werewolf were familiar to him. They calmed him infinitely more than any other feeling outside of Leif. It was comfort and home. On the icy floor of the forest, surrounded by werewolves trying to keep warm through a frozen night on the run from Deaths. In a cell, back to back with Remus for months on end, having lost his mind. Too fast to be completely human. Body too hot to be natural.

He was let go and it was both a breath of fresh air from feeling trapped and a loss of warmth from feeling human contact and kindness. Ron opened the door and let Odin gently take his arm to guide them downstairs. Human contact was hard, but the werewolves were easier.

"Have you seen or heard from Huffle or Tooth?" Odin whispered as they left the safety of Ron's spelled room.

"No word. When was the last time you…"

"Nearly six months ago," Odin answered. "They were convinced that Potter's victory was false. Too many Deaths still walking about unhindered in the light. Too much corruption in the government."

"So they just… refused to come back?"

"You did."

The accusation hurt. Ron wished he could see Odin in that moment, to know more than the strained voice that spoke it.

"If you haven't been with Huffle or Tooth, then where have you been?" Odin asked. "I thought… when so much time had passed, I thought you were dead. You weren't in any of the prisons. We checked. You weren't with the rebels or the Centaurs. I checked myself. If you were recovering, trying to find yourself or whatever… I understand, but you could have reached out to me. I would have helped you. You needn't have done it alone."

They made it down the stairs. Odin's arm left his waist, leaving him to carry his own weight. He did so.

"I wasn't recovering. Rebastan had me locked up in his own personal cell is all. When the Aurors captured him, I was given a chance to escape."

"What prison was this?" Odin hissed. "There are more prisons hidden by those blasted Deaths? Will the desolation never cease?"

"No need to worry. There were muggles there, but it wasn't like that. It was a type of muggle hospital. Rebastan kept me there to ensure no one could find me. No more dead bodies."

"What was he doing in a muggle hospital?"

"It's far too complicated to explain and it's not important," Ron dismissed.

"It's all important." Odin slipped a piece of paper into his hands, tightening Ron's fingers around it. "This is a floo address. Come visit the pack. Tell us everything. We want to hear it all. Whether you think it's important or not."

"Alright." Something bulky hit him. Ron flinched, going for his wand, even as his fingers told him it was made of cloth. "What's this?"

"My jacket. That room is far too cold. It will be a little small on those giant shoulders of yours, but it will keep you warm when Leif is out and about."

It was only due to the many months Ron had spent trailing behind Odin in the woods that he heard the man's footsteps as they padded out the front door of the shop. Ron pulled the jacket on, Odin's body heat lingering as he buttoned the front. It was worn. Even being blind, he could feel the rough patches where holes had been sewn. The material was heavy though, made to endure harsh winter air.

The shop was quiet for the rest of the evening, the first person to disturb the silence being the owner himself.

"Why do you have a demiguise hanging from your neck?"

Ron started at Benedicts voice, looking down at the small, baby animal he'd retrieved from upstairs to feed. He could hear the shifting of paper bags. Ben had apparently gone out shopping.

"Is that what he is?" Ron asked, scratching the baby's head. Its shaggy hair warmed his skin as it tucked itself into the crook of his neck. A strangled noise of incredulity came from Ben's direction.

"You've gotten ahold of a rare creature from the other side of the planet and you don't even know what it is?" The old man bemoaned the detrimental luck of youth while those of age suffered gambling debts before heading into his back room.

Leif cooed at the baby Demiguise and Ron marveled at the ridiculous notion that he was taking care of a creature that could turn itself invisible to everyone except someone who could _see_ magic.

' _Give some,'_ Leif whined, gesturing towards the table.

"Give what?" Ron asked, his fingers already tracing the wood of the tabletop.

' _Bowl. Cherries. Give some.'_

Ron's fingers found the ceramic bowl, his fingers feeling the soft, smooth skin of the cherries. He pulled it across the table, but as Leif reached for one, intent on breaking it up for the baby demiguise, Ron pulled it away teasingly.

"These what you want?"

Leif stomped her foot, gesturing impatiently to the demiguise whose fingers were hungrily making a 'give me' gesture. It's eyes looking up at him expectantly. He really did need a name. Ron couldn't keep referring to the small magical creature as 'baby' or 'it.'

' _Give some,'_ Leif repeated.

Ron moved the bowl to her thoughtfully, turning her words around in his head.

"What do you think of the name Gibson?"

Leif's face turned in distaste. The Demiguise said nothing, watching anxiously as Leif tore out the seed core before handing the hungry baby the fruit. A 'squish' noise found its way to his ears as Ron watched tiny fingers munch happily, fingers almost instantly going back to the 'give more' motion.

"Welcome to the family, Gibson."


	14. Chapter 11: Mama Bear

Disclaimer: I don't own Molly Weasley's [ Wobble]

* * *

Chapter 11: Mama Bear

Another patronus had come from his mum in the middle of the night. It was the seventh one in five-months' time. She was probably watching that cursed clock again. He wondered if she'd seen the moment he escaped prison. If she'd been watching it in the long hours of the night when Leif had come for him. Her fire lit hands breaking his bonds. He wondered if the moment it had turned from prison to traveling had been when she had burned through the lock or when he'd knocked out three muggle guards on his way out of the strong hold.

Strong Hold. Insane Asylum. The only practical joke any Death Eater had ever made.

' _Your precious boy who lived will never find you here. You'll die alone, left in the darkness to rot, with only your own thoughts to keep you company.'_

Ron scratched at his wrist self-consciously, as if the restraints were still in place. Scabs remained there from his habitual nail dragging, scars crossing both where they'd rubbed raw against the metal for eight long months. Eight months of screaming himself hoarse and trying to kill himself to end it. To make it stop. Of feeling electricity crawl inside his head and across his skin as the muggles tried to 'fix him.' As long metal pieces were pierced into his skin and strange potions were shoved into his veins that made his thoughts strange.

Eight long months of hoping Harry didn't hate him enough to give up looking for him. Eight long months of wondering if the war was still going. Eight long months thinking about Hermione screaming his name, begging him to stay, and his refusal to look back. And that was just inside the muggle prison. Before that had been the Death Eaters prisons. Both crueler and less imaginative in their torment.

Ron turned over, bringing the blankets closer to him. Gibson made a noise of protest snuggling back more firmly into his chest. Leif, her small back against his shoulder, didn't so much as twitch.

If he showed up at the Burrow, who would be there? Would it just be his mother? He imagined the others had gone about their lives after the end of the war… but with dad dead. Someone was probably staying with her.

' _Dad's dead.'_

The thought made him curl tighter into a ball. He'd been keeping the fact at bay. Along with all the others. All the terrible facts that made him want to ball his eyes out and not get out of bed. He didn't have the luxury to not move, to give up living. So he forced the facts out of his head for one more day and one more after that.

Reenter his family's life. Mum wanted it, but that didn't mean anyone else did. Harry had made himself perfectly clear. He hadn't even seen the others; Ginny, Fred, George, Percy. All that was left of his family.

It had been over two years. He would be twenty in a months time. They'd made lives for themselves. Moved on. And what would they do when Ron showed back up? Since Ron had escaped there had been no letters or patronuses from any of his siblings. There had been nothing from Harry or Hermione. Not in five long months.

Ron had fucked up.

Fucked up so big that there was no going back. Mum could forgive him, but no one else could. So should he go to her or did he stay away? Forget what Ron himself might want, what would be best for _her_?

Her patronuses were so desperate. Maybe he should stop in. Wear the glamor necklace so she couldn't see the damage they'd done to him. He'd have tea with her, talk about work, give her a cuddle, and then skip out before anyone else showed up.

Give his mum some peace while not forcing a visit on his siblings.

"Leif," Ron whispered, jostling the fire fairy out of her sleep. "How close is it to sunrise?"

He heard her smacking her lips and stretching her limbs and wings out before she flittered up to the window.

' _Hours,'_ she whined, slumping where she was on the sill and curling into a ball. His mum probably wasn't asleep. Not after sending that patronus. She would be waiting to see if he replied. But Ron couldn't see pen and paper and he was incapable of making a patronus now.

"You want to go on a trip?" Ron asked her, moving the blanket off of him and reaching for his prosthetic.

' _NOW?!'_ She groaned. _'Nooooooooooooo.'_

"Stay here then, me and Gibson will go see mama bear," Ron said, pulling on some pants over his prosthetic.

Leif shot up, sparks flying off of her wings as they fluttered wildly. She was grinning wickedly, looking around the room as if Molly Weasley might march in at that very moment.

' _Mama bear?'_

Ron nodded solemnly.

"I'm sure she would have been delighted to meet such a beautiful, brave gal, but if you want to sleep…"

Leif preened, leaving sparks after her as she flew across the room and snatched up his glamor necklace. She was back before he finished, clipping it around his neck and chattering about how she would tell _Mama Bear_ about her stone collection and how Ron should take it with them so she could show it off.

In response, Ron summoned it and carefully tucked in into his bag. Gibson, who'd been entirely unhappy about this whole affair, quickly followed the rock collection into the bag, trying to take the entire blanket with him. Ron chuckled, shrinking the blanket to a manageable size. With two more tugs, the rest of the blanket followed the baby Demiguise into the bag.

Leif kissed his cheek before sitting on his shoulder. The kiss warmed him from head to toe and, Ron knew from experience, the magic would last all night long. It would keep him warm even if it was below zero outside. Perks of being bonded to the little fire fairy.

Disapperating with a fake leg was far trickier than normal apparition. Turning quickly around in a circle being a bit too complex for the cheaply spelled appendix. It was made even trickier in that Ron was having a harder and harder time remembering what places looked like. His home was easier than most, but there were plenty of places he'd never seen before, and plenty more that had changed so drastically that it often left him several miles away from his original destination. That being said, Ron had only minorly splinched himself twice since becoming a blind cripple.

He landed near the Burrow, weary of tripping alarms. His mother would never ward against him, but the twins or Ginny were vindictive enough when angered and wouldn't think twice about it. He eyed the area, the magical barrier shimmering purple. There were bits and pieces of the house he could see. Things that had been stretched or patched up over the years by magic.

Carefully he limped up to the barrier and placed his hand against it. His fingers slipped through with ease. No alarm sounded. He breathed out a sigh of relief and walked through, holding onto Leif so that she could make it through the barrier.

He followed Leif's bright features until she paused. He reached his hand out, something solid meeting his fingers. Rough wood. A small square of glass in the center with metal pieces stretching over it. To the right, just where Ron's hip sat, was a knob.

He was home.

He flinched at the thought. Because it was wrong. Standing in front of the door he knew like the back of his hand, despite not being able to see it, he felt relief. And guilt for the relief. And foolish because the people behind this door wouldn't feel relief at seeing _him._

Should he just open it and go inside? Or should he knock? It had been a long time. The burrow was no longer his home. This place was no longer where he belonged. He didn't belong anywhere. Not here. Not with his family. Not with Harry or Hermione. Not at Hogwarts.

Ron was inches from back trailing and hunching away when Leif flew forward and rammed into the door. There was a shuffle inside. He heard the rustle of long flowing cloth, the crack of joints, the too heavy footsteps. His mum had been in the kitchen, just like he'd thought.

"Who is it?" Molly Weasley's voice called out, voice weary, but hopeful.

She'd been waiting to see if he would respond.

"Mum," Ron croaked. "It's me."

He heard her scramble for the knob. The door creaked open and a body, shorter than him, met his own. Locking his arms to the side as thick arms clamped on. Her face buried into his chest and Ron found his own hands coming up to return the hug. One hand on her back and the other on her head, buried in thinning hair.

"Mum?" Ron repeated, trying to draw out her voice, a voice he'd begun to forget.

It came, but in the form of soft sobs, she rocked back and forth, unbalancing him in the process, forcing him to let go in order to hold onto the frame of the door. She hardly noticed. When she rocked hard enough to make his prosthetic buckle under him, Ron was forced to slide down to the ground, taking her with him.

Both now sitting on the ground, half in and half out of the house, Molly took the opportunity to sidle closer, until their knees touched and their sides leaned against one another. Ron tugged her, almost nearly on his lap, letting her cry out her anguish. He stroked her hair in a soothing manner, brushing it behind her ear and rocking with her. Eventually it settled into scarce hiccups before finally falling into steady breathing.

"Hi, mum," Ron finally said.

Thick fingers offset by sharp nails cupped his left cheek and a kiss was placed on his right cheek then his forehead. His face was being tilted towards hers, and Ron tried his best to make it look as if he was looking her in the eye.

"Oh, Ronnie," Molly breathed. Fingers traced beneath his eyes, her thumb tracing before catching on the scars hidden by glamor. They began to shake anew as those sharp nails found the indents of stolen flesh and the swollen, risen skin of cut flesh. "Oh, baby," she breathed.

Ron reached out and grabbed her hand to stop her.

"Don't tell anyone," Ron pleaded.

"Oh baby, it's not something you can hide," his mum told him.

"I've been doing fine until now. Most people don't feel my face and make me look right at them," Ron pointed out, soft, but firm. "Don't tell anyone."

A watery sound escaped her, but no other sound. She pulled away, one hand lingering to help him up and lead him into the house. The heat in the room was warm and inviting. He could smell gingersnaps on the table and the low thrum of a kettle on the stove. Not yet ready, but gearing up for it.

A chair scraped across floor and then his mum was guiding him to sit down. He felt Leif peeking out from his collar, the fire fairy having been startled by the hysterical woman. Now she poked out and settled onto his shoulder.

"Who is this?" Mum asked, her voice came from directly beside him, settled in a seat.

Ron held out his hand, Leif preened excitedly, leaping in the air to stand on the tip of his finger. He felt her weight shift on his finger and knew the little imp was bowing dramatically.

"This is Leif, the most gorgeous little fire fairy you will ever meet," Ron introduced, willingly stroking her ego. She loved to be praised for her looks in front of strangers. He had no doubt she was egging it up, swishing her hair or fluttering her eyes shyly. And with who he was, they rarely spoke to anyone, but Ben.

He could practically hear the grin on his mother's face as she spoke.

"Oh? Why, it is very nice to meet you Leif, and I have to say that Ronnie is quite right, you are quite the beauty." He felt a small twinge of heat on his fingertips as Leif's foot swirled around as if she were twirling. There was an unasked question in the air. Fairies never traveled with humans. Some might linger around the children, but it wasn't heard of for one to willingly travel and stay with a witch or wizard.

Ron turned his hand, forcing Leif to flutter down into his palm. He lifted it to his head and she happily landed on his head to settle in his hair. She was still tuckered out from the day and he wouldn't be surprised if she fell asleep there.

"In the cells," Ron said slowly, trying to explain it with the least amount of actual explaining. "everyone was dying; the muggleborns, the half breeds, the magical creatures, all the prisoners. I kept her dry. She kept me warm. Some escaped, but most died. Everyone I knew was dead. Everyone she knew was dead. We sort of just… kept together. It was useful, and then it was just…" Ron shrugged.

' _Need,'_ Leif announced, _'each other.'_

"That," Ron agreed.

Across from him was silence. He wished he could see her face. There was a tension that hadn't been there before and he knew immediately he shouldn't have mentioned the cells. Movement brought to attention his other tag along. He shoved his hand into the bag, feeling the furry little demiguise tossing into a new sleeping position. A fond grin made its way onto his face as he pulled the toddler out.

"And this is, Gibson," Ron introduced.

The tension relaxed a little, but not completely.

"Ronnie, dear, you're not holding anything?" It was phrased like a question and Ron chuckled as he realized what had happened. He brought Gibson up and breathed into the baby's face. Gibson's nose wrinkled and his mum shrieked, waking Gibson completely. The baby looked around before clamping onto his hand, whining his disapproval.

"Shhhhhh, it's okay. She's safe, I promise," Ron stroked Gibson from head to stomach. The baby whined, curling in then out, before slowly unfolding into a sitting position. Still thoroughly unhappy with him though.

"Is that a Demiguise?" His mum breathed.

"Yup," Ron said, "Took me three weeks to figure out no one else could see him but me. Oh…" Ron pointed to the baby. "I'm not completely blind. I can see magic. Which means this little guy can't hide from me."

"Where's its mother?" Molly asked.

Ron shrugged.

"She's either hundreds of miles away or dead. This little guy was clinging to whatever creature a dragon picked up to eat. Dragon dropped in on our heads and we were all pretty lucky to…" he stopped, realizing belatedly that this was his _mother_ he was talking to.

"When was this?" Molly breathed, her quick breaths clearly trying to restrain from a full on hysterical rant.

"Does it matter, mum?" Ron asked, finally feeling the exhaustion from the day.

Everything they were refusing to talk about suddenly sat, ugly and real, in the middle of the room.

"It all matters," Molly said wetly. "I'm trying not to…"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Were you…" his mum swallowed hard. "… the whole time?"

Ron gave a jerky nod.

There was a harsh inhale of breath, the clashing of teeth, as if she'd bitten the air and ended up swallowing more than her lungs could take. A harsh cough. Fingers clamped onto his shoulder, before trailing down his arm, settling on his knee.

"I don't know how to do this," his mum finally admitted. "I don't know how to ask anything without breaking you."

Silence dragged.

"I don't know either," Ron finally said. "Can we just… talk about other things… and as they come up… they come up?"

"I can certainly try," his mum told him.

So they did.

When his mum announced that the sun was up, Ron started to get ready to leave. Gibson long ago having crawled back into the bag with a final stink eye Ron's way. He sent the dishes to the sink, letting them wash and stack themselves as he wrestled with his prosthetic. His stump was hurting and he realized with a sinking feeling that Ben would be expecting him in a few short hours for work.

"Where are you going?" The words were spoken in a panic. Ron turned to where his mum's voice had come from, blinking in confusion.

"I have to go back home. I have work," Ron said slowly.

"This is your home," Molly snapped. "You don't need to go anywhere."

"Mum…"

"No! No, don't you use that tone with me. I just got you back. You can't leave. This is your home. You can't go wandering out there… Ronnie, let me help you. Let me take care of you. You need it."

He limped over to her, reaching out towards her. She had his hand then his torso in her arms in an instant. He hugged her to him, leaning on her more than he should, but she took the extra weight with no notice at all.

"I can't stay here," Ron whispered.

"Yes, you can. You must. Ronnie, there's no need for you to go. No need at all."

"Ginny's going to be up soon. I really do need to head out."

"Your sister is wrong. Your brothers are wrong. If they knew what happened to you…"

"Don't. Please, mum, don't. They're angry and hurt and nothing you say is going to change that so don't. I… it was against my will, but I did give him the information. That's something that can't be forgiven. If they want to know what happened then they'll come to me, but let them come to me. Don't force it on them. Please."

She sniffled against him.

"This isn't right," she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head.

"Life rarely is."

She'd done some dishes by hand while they'd talked. The water wrinkled tips of her fingers traced his chin and he assumed she was trying to look him in the eyes.

"If I told you to floo or write when you're in trouble, you wouldn't do either, would you?" The question was a statement, said with resignation. "So you'll visit me once a week. Doesn't matter when, just when you can. If you don't come for a visit, then I'll come after you, Ronnie. I'll find this Ben and I will not be happy with either of you."

Ron smiled against the hand, holding it close before pulling it away.

"Send a patronus when Ginny's out for the night, and I'll come," Ron compromised.

"Alright."

83


	15. Interlude II

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Interlude Two

* * *

Witch Weekly

Penelope Clearwater: A New Era of Researchers

No one was surprised when the Headgirl Ravenclaw Graduate, Penelope Clearwater, managed to earn herself a research position working for the Unspeakables. Thriving under the vast amounts of confidential information available to her, Penelope paved her way through a number of radical developments that led to the expanded form of the courts Pensive. If not for her research, we might be undergoing dubious trials such as what was seen during the first war.

Of course, everyone has a story of the war, even Penelope Clearwater who is a Half-Blood. Secrets that have only been tapped into in this interview and a connection to one man who everyone is talking about: Ronald Weasley. Is the man a war traitor or a war hero? Penelope Clearwater maintains that Ronald Bilius Weasley is a hero to her.

She was being held down for a public execution, she claims, three Death Eaters who'd demanded her research, but she'd refused to give to them, refused to betray the Unspeakables or her own morals by giving up the dangerous secrets held in the Department of Mysteries. The Death Eater, Rebastan Lestrange, had already spoken the spell. Avada Kadavra was already heading straight for her…

When a spell hit her, and the two Death Eaters, hard enough to send her out of the way. Instead one of her captives was knocked into the line of fire and when she looked up… it was to Ronald Weasley, telling her to run, telling her to escape. Meanwhile this brave young man drew them away from her, giving her time to escape while he himself was captured.

Unsure of what to do and feeling guilt for the boy's capture, Penelope fled to France where she spent a number of months taking care of her grandmother and listening in for any news of her home land. But this young woman's story does not end here.

No, upon returning to England, she has began funding her own research lab. Through the breakthroughs she has harnessed, she has donated money to many war veterans and families who have lost their home during the war.

"I'm working on a new experiment in Human transfiguration that will dominate the cosmetics department of the wizarding world," Penelope explained excitedly. "It's my hope that despite the deep scars left by the war, we can do more than simply cover those marks with glamor charms, well actually be able to perform physical change without the unpleasantness of the Polyjuice potion."

"That's wonderful news. Tell us, can we look forward to more such marvels from your lab?"

"Oh yes, I already have a line of release dates for products that will aide in the recovery of our nation, but I'm afraid that more information will have to wait until we've tested the products. More than anything, I want these items to be safe for the public. That's my number one priority."

Penelope went on to talk about her work with Ernie MacMillan, Journalist for the Daily Prophet, would be working with her on the marketing side of things.

"I'm a researcher first and foremost. To be honest, I'm not so good with people, so I knew I needed someone like Ernie who is both bold and charming."

"Does it bother you that he has written a series of articles claiming Ronald Weasley a traitor despite the Ministry and Auror Department announcing his innocents?"

"Ernie was very hurt in the war. He lost both his parents and a number of his friends in the final battle against Voldemort. He is a man who needs to see the truth, to hear all sides of the story, and can only rely on that information which is given to him. The private trial was very suspicious to him and the lack of information allowed to the public was far too reminiscent of the cover up performed in the last war. However, I've told him of my own accounts and since the articles written some months ago, he was able to get in contact with someone who attended the trial whose words have convinced him of Ronald's innocents. However, he won't publish any more articles, one way or the other, until he speaks with Ronald in person."

"Will he consider a retraction then?"

"You would have to speak to Ernie about that."

"Now that Ronald Weasley has, essentially, come back from the dead, do you have any intentions to go see him?"

Penelope Clearwater made it clear that she would do everything in her power to be able to thank her hero in person. She states that she will even be naming one of her products after him, though was vague on what that product would be or when it would be released. What she did have to say though was this: "After the devastation of the war, my fellow researchers and I believe a new era of magic is upon us, limited only by how far we're willing to look."

Signing off

-Luckless Lavender Brown

* * *

Quibbler

Concern has reached the ears and hearts of the Quibbler these last few months where a frightening statistic has been revealed. The Quibbler was one of the last standing papers to still print hope for those in the war, but what was not revealed in those shadow days was foresight. As we have gathered data and compared it with those poor souls whose bodies have been recovered, there has been a startling lack of Half-Breeds found. That is not to suggest there were no casualties for those whose genetic identity blends human and non-human, but rather, that their bodies have yet to be found.

Everyone remembers the glorious turn of events when Umbridge, the ring-leader against rights of half breeds to live, was torn apart by a pack of Centaurs, but it is with less gusto that we must also remember the horrors she committed before her timely death. There are still two hundred and thirty-seven individuals of half breeds status missing. No bodies. No trail. Simply gone as if they never existed in the first place.

Except who could ever forget our dear Hogwarts Professor, Rubeus Hagrid? The half giant with a full heart of hold? The man who guided children and who helped in the maintenance of Hogwarts long before the first war started. Order of the Phoenix member and long standing right hand to Albus Dumbledore alongside Minerva McGonagall.

-Last seen August 31st, 1997 at an Order Meeting Spot in London

Or Fleur Weasley? One fourth Veela from her grandmother, a competitor in the tournament and then later on a member of the Order of the Phoenix? Not even born of this land, but willing to fight for it and the family she has created here. This brave woman who, many witnesses attest to, took down five Death Eaters on her own before she was taken.

-Last seen November of 1997 on the run with another part Veela shortly after her husbands death

Provided in these pages of this week's edition the Quibbler is a list of all those of Half Breed status who are still missing, who are not being acknowledged by the Ministry because of how their genetics have blended despite the efforts of a number of good people within its walls including Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nyphradora Lupin, Percival Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter himself to push their names forward.

These missing individuals have family and friends who need them. Their fate is undetermined and leave many questions at the forefront of any worthy individual. Why were they separated from the other prisoners? For what purpose? Is there some hidden level to those prisons already discovered or is there another prison altogether? We've already learned that the Numberland prison was able to stay hidden despite months of searching the continent, what's to say that there aren't more? And if there are more prisons out there, then perhaps there is hope to find the missing members of our family alive in its depths, to reunite them with loved ones or to at least bury them properly.

Remember, Ronald Weasley escaped, coming back to us long after the war had ended. He came from a prison no one would have suspected. For Ronald Weasley, the war didn't end in January of 1998 like it did for us. Rather, it ended in September of 1998, after escaping a prison he'd been left to die in. Perhaps if we find the cells we may yet discover prisoners who the war can end for in 1999.

Let us never give up hope even when things seem hopeless. Let us not forget those who have yet to be found. Let us seek out the truth in our daily lives and the lives of others even if it might hurt, for there is not a single individual; witch or wizard, squib or muggle, half blood or have breed, who ever said they did not regret giving up.

-Luna Lovegood

* * *

Daily Prophet

Business Mixed with Kindness

Weasley Wizard Wheezes has been booming as the entertainment store of recently rebuilt Diagone Alley. With its Fall launch of a special brand of light inspired gadgets and nick knacks meant to keep away the gloom and doom, it comes as a surprise that these two have already set up a plan for a Spring launch. With the roaring success of Christmas sales Frederick and George Weasley have funded a new line of puzzles and logistic to challenge those children who enjoy the more intellectual side of fun.

"We were inspired by our older brother, Perce, who admitted that there wasn't really anything that he considered fun. He liked to learn, but books only did so much. There wasn't a game that he could get lost in," George Weasley noted, a sad note to his voice.

"We also spruce it up a bit with challenges. Cubes that transfigures into a higher level puzzle if you succeed, but if you lose… well, you might find you can't let go of the cube for an hour or it turns your fingertips blue," Frederick warned.

The Spring launch is not the only things the Weasley brothers have been working on though. They have supported the Auror Department with their inventions in finding left over Death Eaters and their allies. With Percival Weasley working in the investigative law and overseeing administrative decisions as a courts clerk, and Ginevra Weasley donating her time to assistant those families still looking for missing members of their family, it looks as if the Wizarding World has only thanks to give and expectations for the influence of these great individuals to only grow with time.

Journalist for the Daily Prophet

-Ernie MacMillan


	16. Chapter 12: Breaking Routine

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter's [lack of emotional stability]

* * *

Chapter 12: Breaking Routine

Ron couldn't handle London. There were too many people and only touches of magic here and there. It caused his fingers to tick against his palm. He tried getting on a bus and it was like he'd hung a noose around his neck, like he was being dragged behind the bus instead of sitting inside of it. His wand was constantly out and he knew he'd been stared at. He knew he'd being followed. Apparently London liked him as much as he liked it.

So he got out.

The small towns were both easier and harder. Not so many people, no, but everyone asks questions. Where are you from? Why are you here? Why are you alone? Where are you heading? It feels like an interrogation and this time there's no suffocation, but he feels threatened. Feels like he's in a room with men in masks and snakes and green tattoos and no… just no. He won't answer. He won't tell. He won't speak.

Ron is aggression and defense and no ability for flight so he has to fight and he has to win. So he travels at night from one town to the next and from one nook to another set of crannies and back again. He finds the dark parts of the wizarding world he wants nothing to do with because there are no other options left. He has to move until his hip bleeds and then keep trudging on.

Parse Terrae, the underground city, was the perfect place for Ron. It was small, but no one asked questions. The panic never settled in when he walked the streets. The people didn't bother him and he didn't bother them. Eventually he even came to know their names and if not their faces then at least their voices had become ingrained in his mind. The subtle differences he'd never really picked up on before losing his sight suddenly seemed impossible to ignore.

The six-month mark was around the corner. It was hard to believe he'd been a free man for six months now. The leaves had turned and most of the plants had died off in the winter time, leaving both he and Ben locked up together in the underground potions shop, brewing potions and passing the time by sniping back and forth, being taught various magical card games and a few gambling tricks, and developing something of a relationship that was on the friendlier side than had existed before.

Ron was uncomfortable with how easily he fit into the underground shady town. He'd gotten to know many of the people of Parse Terrae and found more often than not that he liked them. They weren't quite so uptight with morals and their realistic view on the world was so much more refreshing and Ron found that he didn't need to watch what he said, that his harsher comments earned laughs where many of his old friends would have scolded him or looked at him in disbelief.

It wasn't perfect. Obviously. He'd had pick pockets attempt his run down coat more than a few times and the only thing that saved him was that he didn't have any. He'd had desperate men try to mug him and desperate woman try to seduce him. He'd learned what streets to avoid and where he could get away traveling and who he could haggle with and who'd stick a wand in his chest before they went down a single sickle.

It was easy to adjust to though. What with the war, it felt like taking a gentle step down in the extremes. Being able to live in Parse Terrae wasn't as bad as having to survive in the above world.

Mentally, Ron had been doing rather well. His nightmares were constant, but manageable. The anxiety he felt around people was easily avoided by not being around people. Ben now knew not to clink metal in the shop or else his assistant would draw his knife and spend the next half an hour crouched in a corner ready to stab anyone who came near.

Clearly, he wasn't alright, but considering the circumstances of the matter, the limited resources available, his near isolation from the world, and how the world now viewed him… he was doing rather well.

He and Ben had a routine. He slept for the busier parts of the day, when all the people were going in and out of the Potion's shop, and then, mid-afternoon, he'd come down to sort and work with the herbs in the back room. Ben brewed the potions and then as the day wore on and less customers came in, Ron would stack supplies and help with other tasks around the shop. Ron would help

Ben closed up shop and then Ron would be given a list.

Ron and Leif would go out as the sun set to gather herbs and potions ingredients. Make trades or deals with other shops about to close for the day. Then he and Leif would travel about, sometimes to the forest nearby or sometimes to other places around England. They'd spend all night picking up this and that and then, as the sun began to rise, they would go back to the shop and up to the small room to sleep.

When Gibson joined them, the little demiguise stayed home, for the most part. Ron wasn't sure if it was normal for one of their kind to sleep so much, but considering it was a babe, it was probably normal. Finding out what they ate had been the hard part. It was mostly vegan, though the one time Ron had managed to make spaghetti, he had been delighted by the meatballs.

Once every two weeks or so, late in the evening, his mum would send a patronus and the three of them would go over to see her. His mum always gave him a cuddle, always had a bowl full of apricots for Gibson and always listened and complimented Leif for whatever thing she was excited about this visit.

Ron tended to stay quiet.

His mum didn't seem intent on urging him to talk though, for once she did the talking. She told him all about how Fred and George were at the shop and how Perce was doing working in law at the Ministry. She talked about how Ginny was trying out for the Hollywood Harpies. She told him about how Hermione was investigative law and how Harry was working as an Auror.

"What exactly is investigative law?" Ron asked, amused, because wasn't it just like Hermione to invent a position for herself when she wasn't satisfied with the choices available for her.

"Well, after the war, the government was in shambles. It's Hermione's job to investigate all policies and laws set up in the old Ministry and test them against new protocols and more open policies," his mum explained. "Kingsley personally chose the investigators for the office. Both Hermione and Percy are part of the new department, you know, though Percy prefers to stay in the office to push paperwork through and to do administrative work in the courts."

"Sounds entirely too appropriate for them both. It's like she's been made Head Girl of the Ministry of Magic."

"She certainly enjoys her work."

Visits with his mum were always held when Ginny was away. None of his family knew he came in the night to visit her and Ron liked that quite a bit. His mum was less happy, but after Percy, she was reluctant to push the topic.

In exchange for this saving grace, Ron talked some about his work with Ben. Never about wandering various dangerous areas in the middle of the night, but other things. Like stocking the rooms and sorting the herbs. Molly seemed determined to fuss and Ron was thankful she still had no idea he was missing a leg.

The visits though, were only part of his and Leif's regular routine. After a long day of gathering supplies for Ben they would get back to Gibson. The moment Ron and Leif came home from work, Gibson was there, curled around his neck or inside his coat. Leif _always_ cooed at the babe, kissing him warm and shooting sparks up to entertain the babe.

They would spend dawn tuckering out Gibson and playing fire games. Tossing sparks back and forth to one another. Ron would experiment with spells, finding that being able to see the magic meant being able to seeing the inner workings of magic visible to everyone. Stupify, for example, crisscrossed, weaving in and out as it stretched across the way in shades of red. Lumos moved outwards like thousands of lightning strikes, branching out to make a small hovering light.

Ron found that if he reached out and touched the Lumos at the end of his wand, that the lightning strikes would change to stretch across his hand. Ron could tug on that magic, make it go in a different direction. He could stretch the Lumos out and make it form different shapes. It was still light, but now the light stretched across the room, its lightning shapes lightened as far as Ron wanted them to go. He once made fairies of light, having them dance with a highly amused Leif, and a very annoyed Gibson.

He experimented with other spells, of course, but there were few that entertained as much. Scorgify, for example, spread out in circles with spike like marks edging out. Almost like a scrub brush (surprise, surprise). He couldn't figure out how to spread out the scorgify without separating its two central components, the rings and the spikes. Once the two became separated, the strength of the spell weakened.

The experimentation did reveal a few interesting facts though. The hand motions and intentions, working together, caused certain shapes. The spell, words spoken verbally or in one's mind, acted as a sort of pull, to bring together the physical magic of movement and the internal magic of intention.

Ron had always known that the magic of a witch or wizard came from within. They were magical beings, after all, but it was an entirely different matter to watch it happen. There was a sort of… pulse, before the magic shot to the hands. Both hands. Always much brighter in the dominant hand though. Then it sort of became stuck.

A wand in a witch or wizards hand acted as a sort of lightning rod. The magic throbbed in the hand, ready to be released, then, as the intention formed and the physical body movement went into motion, the magic surged forward and transformed into patterns inside the wand, before being released. In essence, then, a wand transformed the magic of a witch or wizard into concentrated energy.

And Ron had the ability to take that transformed magic and transform it further. It was all very complicated and he was sure if Hermione knew she would be foaming at the mouth in jealousy and the need to question him about _everything._

Hermione wasn't here though.

Six months had passed and it seemed that Hermione and Harry were more than happy to ignore his existence. Ron wasn't sure how to feel about that. In the long run this was for the best. Ron had been making inquiries through Ben's less than stellar clients to seek out the Hocrux Voldemort had created from Ron's soul that horrible night. There hadn't been much success, but he knew, at least, that the Hocrux had last been in Scabiors hands. The man who had been promoted from Head Snatcher to Death Eater.

But.

Ron had wanted time with them. He'd wanted to be given the chance to make things up. He'd wanted to be able to say goodbye and to… something. Things could never go back to how they were. Ron knew that. He understood he didn't deserve it and that it was unrealistic and stupid to think… Still. He had. He'd hoped he could have them again. He'd wanted to be able to say they were his best friends.

Selfish and stupid. That's what such thoughts were. Ron had to keep moving forward. He had to keep up the investigation and get his hands on the Hocrux. Destroy it. He had to destroy his own soul. He wondered if it had been twisted, like the damn things Voldemort had created. Maybe Ron himself had been twisted by the magic. He certain felt the gaping hole in his soul. The missing piece of himself.

He felt unstable. He thought back on his past, trying to imagine what the difference was between who he had been and what he had become. What was missing? What had Voldemort stolen from him that night? What had been sealed inside that necklace?

He couldn't begin to guess.

One thing was certain though. Before leaving Danny's Prang's office, he asked the man only one request. Updates on how Harry and Hermione were really doing. The man often saw Harry in his office, being the Auror Healer on duty. There were times when he accompanied Hermione on field work as well, being certified as both a Healer and an Auror left him as the best body guard for the young woman.

The news he'd been receiving though had been snippets of depression and clips stressed, sleepless eyes. Prang had mentioned how unhappy they were. How desolate they seemed at times despite the good work they were doing.

It was time to break his normal routine.

Harry was both more complicated and simpler than Hermione. Unfortunately, Ron couldn't make Harry join the Quidditch team or to socialize with his fellow Aurors. Ron couldn't crack jokes for Harry to ease the tension in his shoulders or nudge him playfully as they walked down the halls. Knowledge could be given through material objects in Hermione's case, but friendship could not be delivered in a package.

Ron had a plan though.

* * *

"What is this?"

Keegan shrugged as he set the small package down on Harry Potters desk.

"Passed the security check points," the Auror said, disappearing out of the office with a two-fingered salute. "Tonks looked at it herself!"

Harry prodded the box wearily. He was rather tired of all the heartfelt letters and none sense that came by Owl and through the delivery system, but if it were those things then Tonks wouldn't have let it get through. Carefully, he removed the lid.

It exploded.

Harry was out of his seat with his wand drawn before any of the confetti could hit him. When he saw what the box had opened up to become, he laughed, sitting down in his chair and examining the miniature Dolores Umbridge being manhandled by two Centaurs as the three moved in a circle around his desk. The High Inquisitor screamed silently as she was first carried around by her waist then by her feet and finally by her hands. After a few minutes, all three figures dissolved into a piece of paper, crumbling and reassembling until the article of Umbridge's arrest just that very morning sat on his desk in pristine condition, framed by wood and ready to be tacked onto his wall.

This had to be the twins.

Harry grinned as he spelled the frame right behind his desk, where he'd be able to see it each time he walked through the door. They really were making a difference, weren't they? The late hours at work, barely being able to sleep, the impatience and fear that still lingered in the air so many months after the defeat of Voldemort. But here was a piece of proof that they were really, truly getting things done, if not quickly then at least correctly.

He had to tell Hermione about this.

"Going to lunch!" Harry called, almost chuckling at the startled Ferris straightening out and staring at him as if he'd grown a second head.

* * *

Ron's bead remained a steady blue. Hermione rolled the bead between her fingers, feeling how warm it was against her skin, eyeing the other five black stones on the bracelet. She should take off Remus Lupin's bead. The confirmed death of the man meant that his would never glow.

Fingers trembling, Hermione carefully removed the small stone, a frozen piece of hair inside provided lovingly by Tonks. The black stone rolled across her desk. She flinched as it hit a stack of papers and she realized she didn't know where to put it now. Tossing it in the trash seemed callous.

She put it in her drawer instead.

It hit a corner. The sound loud in her empty office. Hannah was right outside the door, speaking with a man Hermione didn't recognize. Thomas would be back from lunch soon. She should go eat too. Maybe wander over to Harry, make sure he was eating…

Should she take Ron's off?

It was a last desperate act. The bracelet. Each bead, possessing the DNA of a missing Order member, would start to glow if the missing person was within a mile of her. Harry had the same bracelet, carried only because Hermione had insisted, though he kept his tucked in his coat pocket.

She went to remove it, but stopped. It felt nice. To see one of the stones glowing. People had told her that none of them ever would. They said that the stones would all remain black and that it was a fool's errand to wear them. She'd been belittled, even by those who loved and cared for her most, talked down to about 'facing reality' about 'moving on' and a million other condescending words that had hardened around her heart even as she continued to keep holding on to hope.

Here was proof that there was still a chance.

No one thought Ron Weasley would appear again. No one thought he was alive or, at the very least, within the country. Yet he was here. A beacon of hope for her even when it hurt to look at him.

She kept the bead right where it was.

* * *

Both Harry and Hermione were complicated, ill adjusted people. Ron knew this. Even two years of separation, he knew how the gears functioned in their heads. The way to get to them was the way to always get to them.

Ron preyed on their weaknesses.

For Hermione that meant books.

Over the years she had accumulated a list. It was a list that, according to her, every real book lover tended to have. Rare books or expensive books, ones that were wanted, but were difficult to get. It was a list she kept close to her heart. A list that Ron had, upon being unable to think of proper birthday and Christmas gifts, had snuck away with one night and made his own copy of. A list he'd gone over so many times in his search of said books that he had most of them memorized.

' _Off the paper,'_ Leif muttered.

He felt her small hand push his fingers a few inches left.

"Thanks."

"What are you doing?" Ben barked. He could feel the much shorter wizard coming up behind him, peering at the paper. "Never would have pegged you as a reader."

Ben snickered to himself. Ron blew gently over the fresh ink, sending the shadow figure a annoyed glare. Then, because Ron was many things, but mature was not one of them, he thrust the paper into Ben's chest, nearly knocking the little man over.

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you," Ron apologized. Savage muttering met his words causing Ron to snicker himself. "So, Ben, you're a shady mother fucker, aren't you?"

"What?"

Ron gestured to the shop and the underground town outside their window.

"This entire town isn't exactly known for its twinkle eyed shop owners or warm welcome. My guess is that you know how to get ahold of things that you wouldn't normally be able to."

"Subtle as a brick. You certainly weren't in Slytherine," Ben sighed. "What is it? What do you want?"

Ron grinned, holding out the butchered list of books.

"Do you think you could get ahold of these for me? No dark objects or anything, just hard to come by, you can take it out of my pay check."

"You barely have any left after I take out your rent."

"I'm not saying all at once," Ron scowled. "Just… what you can get ahold of, one or two books a paycheck. Can't be that much."

"You don't even know what most of these books are on, do you?" Ben muttered, the sound of paper crinkling in his knurled hands.

"No, not really, but there not for me."

"This is an awfully big favor you're asking for, gimp."

"I almost got eaten alive by a dragon traipsing around the forest for you, I think hunting down a few books that I'll be paying you for isn't much in comparison."

"Wouldn't have been better off hiring a goblin," Ben muttered, walking away.

"Have you taken your medicine today?" Ron called out, waving his wand to lift the shipment delivered earlier that day into the back room. Ben didn't reply, but he heard the telltale signs of a glass bottle being lifted and uncorked, which was answer enough.

Hermione's weakness had always been and probably always would be books. They were her joy. The thing that gave her comfort in the dark days and long nights. Delivering these to her wouldn't heal the wounds festering from the war, but it would help make the time seem less oppressive for her. Even if her days seemed to never end, she could enjoy curling up with a book in the late hours of the night.

* * *

Hermione found the book on her desk. Its cover was worn and there was water damage along the spine and a corner of the book. _The Anatomy of Advanced Charms: How to build new charms from scratch._

Hermione's hand found her mouth as she picked it up. The smell reached her first. Old and musty, pages left to rot in some nook or at the bottom of a box somewhere. Placed to be forgotten until now… She traced the words, the letters risen with just enough to be read without sight.

Who?

Who would know?

No one, but her mother and father knew of her list. Harry? No. She'd never spoken of it to him. Specifically because Harry had the money that he _would_ waste on her. This book… Merlin… it was a first edition, written in 1347 by a witch before witch's were allowed to publish. There were only six copies of this book made and it had been moved from private house holds to private libraries, but not allowed in the public until nearly 1650.

A small piece of paper fell from the cover jacket. She reached down to pick it up, staring at the single word written in a messy scrawl.

 _-Teaspoon_


	17. Chapter 13 Elone Pep Trearacel

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Sorry about the late update: My Microsoft account expired and I had to wait until payday to buy a new one.

* * *

Chapter 13: Elone Pep Trearacel

The Nox Wrack case had taken a far more serious turn than Harry expected. He suspected a far more devious end than one wayward witch selling faulty potions for money and when Tonks called in a meeting of several higher ups over the woman, his suspicions were confirmed, though not by the mouth of anyone in that office.

Harry was being treated like an errand boy while the 'adults' spoke in hushed tones. He was being asked to gather information about the woman while the higher ups debated information that he, apparently, was not to be privy to. It was a load of bull. As he'd told Tonks after the meeting, but the woman had simply raised an eyebrow at him and dismissed him without rebuke or agreement.

"I'm sure you'll be informed as its needed," Hermione said soothingly while they were both on lunch break that afternoon.

Harry made a face at her, frustrated and annoyed. Ron would never agree with…

"That's bullshit," Ron announced. He sat on one of Hermione's higher up filing cabinets, bouncing his knee and leaning against a picture frame. "Being misinformed or not wholly informed on a case you are working could cause a danger to you. What if this woman is a lunatic? What if she is secretly using the potions as a cover for something more dangerous? It's your case, your life, you need to say something."

Harry felt his anger slide away. Still there, but not quite so overwhelming.

"It became 'as needed' when I agreed to take the case," Harry paraphrased, trying to ignore Ron who nodded his head in approval. "Why keep secrets from the people you are working with? Something bigger is going on here and if I'm to do my work successfully then I need all the information they can give me."

Hermione finally put her papers down, looking at Harry seriously for the first time since he stepped into her office, chicken paninis in hand. She held up a case file with the word 'Spitfire' across the front. The man who ran with werewolves during the war. The one Hermione suspected of being Mad Eye Moody. A large mound of papers were already collecting in the file despite the little amount of information available to the public and the few resources they had in concerns to him. It was something she'd been doing in her own time, something related to, but not part of the Werewolf Initiative.

"What do we know of hire ups, Harry? They _always_ keep information from us. If you want to know what's going on then followed the leads and find out for yourself. If they don't want to give you the information you need, then you find it."

'Spitfire' hit the desk with a thud.

"Errr…" Harry heard Ron mutter behind him. The delusion had disappeared and reappeared in the span of a second. Blue eyes wide as they looked down at the paper. Harry fought the urge to glance in his direction. "How long has she been researching that?"

"Spitfire?" Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"I feel like I'm close," Hermione stabbed at the paper with her fingernail, Harry cringed as the weak fibers bent and a crack formed, but she didn't seem to notice or care in her enthusiasm. "I think Moody played a much larger role in things than we suspect. More than that… I think there was an organization formed outside of the Order, a rebellion against the Death Eaters, of a sort. I think 'Spitfire' was a code name."

"Um…" Ron's flustered voice carried through the air. He looked like a gnome picked up by its hairs, one too shocked to be angry just before being thrown out of the yard.

"What makes you say that?" Harry asked.

"Well, Thomas suspected it though it was never outright spoken about. They were more like human allies, groups that Spitfire would meet up with briefly, but since he had some sort of Death Eater tracker on him… it was safer to stay in the forests with the werewolves, constantly moving than going to any of the human homes."

"Werewolves are human," Harry snapped, eyeing Hermione questioningly.

She blushed.

"Yes, yes, they are, you're absolutely right. It's just… well, Thomas and those I've been talking with don't refer to themselves as such and when you spend hours at a time hearing it over and over…." Hermione gestured with her hand, helplessly, begging Harry to take pity on her. He sighed and nodded his understanding. Hermione continued. "I've tried to put a stop to such none sense, but they shrug it off so carelessly."

There was a tense pause, an awkward silence that had become more frequent as time passed. Ron rolled his eyes at them, gesturing at Harry to say something, but he could only stare blankly back. Ron smacked his forehead against the desk, the motion soundless, and heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Hermione, let's go out to eat lunch, we need a breath of fresh air…" Ron suggested.

Harry twiddled with his thumb.

"Are you sure Moody is Spitfire?" Harry asked instead. Ron threw his hands up in frustration.

"I'm the emotionally constipated one… right," Ron was muttering now, having thrown himself into a chair in the corner of the room. "Teaspoon, she says, but to Harry? Oh, Harry, sweetie pie, apple of my eye, fragile bumpkin of my muffin… you're not emotionally stunted… you're just… special."

"Thomas says he was behind most of the plans. He was the strategist. Plus its hard to ignore the obvious, isn't it? Gouged out eye. Missing leg. Who _else_ could it be?"

"Fair point, but Umbridge…"

"Had Moody's fake eye in her office door, but he was knocked out of the sky… they could have easily have taken the eye before he was put in the prison cells with Sage's pack."

In the corner Ron had gone silent. Harry chanced a glance over to him. The long gangly legs were tossed carelessly over the arms of the chair as blue eyes examined the ceiling as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Here's the fascinating thing though… well, more like worrying…" Hermione continued, oblivious as always to Harry's imaginary Ron Weasley. "I think the rebel group is still in action."

"What?" Harry bulked. "Why?"

"That's the worrying part. There's signs at the prisons, Numberland included, that they've already been raided by Aurors, that prisoners have been set free… only they weren't. We have no information about any Auror group or Order group discovering these places before we found them."

"But why not come forward? Where are the missing prisoners?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded her agreement, obviously still searching for those answers herself.

"There's so few reports of survivors from those prisons. Most come from just after the end of the war. More than anything we are labeling corpses with names for the missing. But there's still so many that are unaccounted for and its starting to draw a picture that doesn't make much sense."

"You think the rebel group was behind Rebastan Lestrange's capture?"

It had been odd. It had almost seemed like Rebastan had been set up by an inside man. The Aurors had been tipped off to a location by a 'reliable source' Kingsley was unwilling to name. They had gone in and Rebastan had been easily taken down. Already looking as if he'd survived an ambush, the man had been unable to defend himself with his wand hand broken. Everything about the situation had been odd, but no one had been willing to question the easy take down of one of Voldemort's most loyal associates.

"I think it makes more sense than anything else anyone has come up with," Hermione answered.

"But…?"

"But why not assist the Aurors openly? That's the part that's bugging me."

"Maybe they can't," Ron tossed in. "Not everyone can just jump back into the world after war. Maybe they can't handle facing anyone yet. Maybe the shadows are easier to work from when you've been forced to live in them for so long."

Harry tried not to let himself think of the real Ron. His best friend who'd looked so lost and terrified among the people outside of the Auror headquarters. It sounds too unlike Harry's own thoughts, far too much like the red head, the real thing. He finds himself questioning this person who is so like his best friend, who has to be Harry's impression of Ron, but who says things Harry himself would never expect from Ron.

How can this hallow thing resemble Ron and but not? How could Harry create something like that. Something like t _his_. Not for the first time, the idea that he has lost his mind seemed wrong, that something else is going on. But the young man lounging in the chair, staring up blankly at the ceiling, is not a ghost. He is not an Inferi. What else could he be?

"It makes me think that they aren't using legal means or that their methods are questionable," Hermione continued absently.

"Not as if we haven't done 'questionable' things during the war," Harry piped up.

Hermione glowered.

"There was no government. People were being murdered left and right. How can we build order out of the ashes if we have groups like this trying to work outside of that order? We cannot condone lawless actions while trying to build laws, Harry."

"I know. I don't need a lecture. I'm just saying that we aren't wholly justified to cast stones, you know?"

"You're in the process of building a new government," Ron saw fit to add. "That doesn't mean its stable enough to be called a government yet. There are too few people running the show and too much to be done. It's only logical that there are still remnants of people performing duties outside of the law when the law itself isn't fully formed yet. You're stumbling along, making things up as you go."

"That's the problem," Hermione glowered. "If every vigilante takes that stand then they'll just be causing us more trouble as we set things us. Its better to stand with us and work to fix the issues we're all facing together."

It was almost as if Hermione could _hear_ Ron and they were having the beginnings of a row. If her glare wasn't solely focused on him then he would swear Ron was really there with them.

"It's a fair point," Ron relented, "but that doesn't mean that's how these things are going to happen nor does it mean that's how these people feel. Why should they trust a government that's already failed so completely to protect them?"

"We haven't given them much reason to trust the government yet," Harry found himself repeating. "Whatever this group is doing, I'm sure one of those things is watching and waiting to see if we fail, we have to prove them wrong and prove that we are worth standing next to."

Hermione scowled.

"Moody, at the very least, should know better, he's an Auror for magic's sake." Her voice was brittle and annoyed and Harry suddenly felt that he really should have listened to Ron in taking her out instead of talking more work. There were bags under her eyes that were starting to become permanent and the twenty-year-old looked as if she were thirty, layered as she was in ink and paperwork.

"It's not too late," Ron called. Harry looked over at Ron. The red head had stood, hands in pockets, his tall frame as steadfast as he'd always been. Ron gestured towards the door. "You can still take her to lunch… you can still go eat and relax… you work for this department but that doesn't mean they own your souls. You need a break. Take it."

Harry stood, walking around the desk and taking all of the files, including the one in Hermione's hands, and removed them from her grasp.

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to London for lunch. A muggle shop. We need to get out for a few hours."

"We can't just leave…"

"They don't own our souls," Harry rushed out, standing straight and for once meeting the delusions eyes. Ron looked proud of him and Harry couldn't help but feel better for it. "They can afford to let us take a break, in fact, they really can't afford for us not to have a break. You don't have a choice, Hermione, we're doing this."

He was rewarded by the up turn of Hermione's lips as they fought a smile. The tension in her shoulders didn't go away, but she didn't look as if she was going to crumble into sand from the sheer pressure hunching her over anymore either.

"Are you kidnapping me, Mr. Potter?"

"Only if your unwilling."

"Might I negotiate tea into this hostile takeover?"

"Only if we can manage to have chips alongside the tea."

Hermione went to grab her bag, but Harry swept her hands into his, capturing them against his chest.

"No work. None. We'll talk about… pigmy puffs or something."

Hermione leaned in against him, her hands sneaking around his waist.

"Alright. No bag. No papers. Just you, me, and pointless conversations."

Harry glanced back into the office just before the door closed, but Ron wasn't there. Nor did he show himself for the rest of the day or that week. He and Hermione went out and made it a point to not speak of the Death Eater Trials coming up, of the Werewolf Initiative, of cases or Nox Wrack or even Spitfire.

Harry felt better for freeing themselves from the cycle of endless work they'd gotten trapped in, but there was a loneliness opening up afresh at the realization that Ron only ever showed up when he couldn't handle things. The better he handled things, the happier he and Hermione allowed themselves to be… the less Ron spoke to him. There was no more Ron who sat on the couch keeping him company as Hermione worked away at her papers. There was no Ron who stood next to him after Death Eater interrogations.

* * *

One afternoon, when the silence was beginning to get to him and Hermione had left on another train ride rather than staying in the office, Harry found himself purposefully calling forth the makings of his imagination and madness.

"Ron? Why haven't you been around lately?"

No one answered for several long moments, long enough that he wondered if he was cure. If the moment in the office has somehow caused Harry to… mentally come together. But then Ron was standing beside his desk, looking unhappy and tense.

"You can't rely on me, Harry, I don't want you to come to rely on me. You and Hermione, you need to get better, you can't do that if I'm always here."

"What are you?"

Ron shifted from foot to foot, his lips thinning as he seemed to fight with himself.

"I'm an abomination, an impression of the person you've lost. I'm here for you, always, and as long as you need me, I will be here, but…" Ron knelt down so that he was staring hard at him. "This isn't healthy. You'll have to let go of me eventually. The real me and this version you've leached onto."

"Ron's alive though," Harry said, the feeling like a realization even though Harry had known it for months. "I… I should find him. I've left it too long."

Ron hesitated.

"That person, its not really a person anymore, that Ron… he'll only hurt you in the end. Don't get close to him. Don't let yourself get close to him. He's as permanent as I am, Harry, and you need to let him go for yourself, for Hermione, and for him."

"I don't understand."

"And I can't explain. Please, Harry, please, if there was ever any trust between us, trust me on this."

Harry wanted to press further, but Ron was gone again. He found the loneliness closing in again, like blades against his throat, drawing not blood, but rather, the organic muscles of his heart. Stretching outwards until they threatened to snap with the tension and raw feelings he'd been trying to ignore for so long.

He missed his best friend.

* * *

Harry was reviewing the witch's file, Elone Pep Trearacel, when Percival Weasley walked through the door, surprising Aiden into nearly dropping his coffee mug. For his part, Harry didn't pay much attention to the man, even when he'd marched up to his desk and stood impatiently waiting to be noticed. The rest of the Weasley family had forgiven the man, but both Percy and Harry had never quite saw eye to eye even when fighting side by side on the battlefield.

A cleared throat forced Harry to look up.

"I thought you might want to be informed that the last of the Snatchers have officially been sentenced. Crabbe's going on trial tomorrow."

The first of the Death Eaters.

"Thank you," Harry grudgingly mumbled.

"You could have found out just as much if you'd simply walked out of your office."

Here it was.

"So why are you really here?" Harry sighed, feeling his headache intensifying.

"Mother insisted I remind you that our plans to have dinner this weekend have changed and that we are all meeting at Andromeda Tonks house for Teddy's birthday."

"Right."

There was an awkward pause as Percy continued to stand in front of his desk. His face something between wanting to insult Harry and ask forgiveness. It was an odd feature, but one the older man had perfected over the course of the last year. He seemed ready to give up and turn away when he spotted the paper on Harry's desk.

"Elone Pep Trearacel?" Percy's voice was sharp.

"A witch whose been selling faulty potions to people. She's been on the run for a number of weeks now."

"How do you know its this Elone person? Where's the proof?"

Harry glanced at Percy, scrutinizing the nearly manic turn the Weasley had taken.

"It's how she signed all the business papers," Harry said carefully. "We have her file here along with a snap shot a muggleborn Auror got us."

"Let me see it," Percy snapped. Harry's eyebrows raised, too bewildered to be aggravated, he handed over the picture of the brunette woman. Percy stared at it for a long time even after Harry repeated demanded what the problem was. "These faulty potions. What have they done?"

"Some of the victims have been admitted to long term recovery in St. Mungo's while others have recovered quickly. What made this a priority though is the most recent victim… she died before she ever made it to a Healer. This has been bumped up to murder with a possibility of more victims if she's not caught."

Face ashen now, Harry stood to offer Percy a chair, to tell him to sit down, when the man turned rigid and walked off.

"Hey! I need that picture!"

"Get another!"

"Such a prat," Harry muttered, sitting down and staring at the file of Elone Pep Trearacel, wondering just what the hell Percy's connection could be with the much older woman. He could always corner Percy at the party this weekend though. Still… he sent a patronus to the twins, knowing that if there was anyone who could get Percy to open up, it would be Fred and George.

"I want to see Ron's case," Harry demanded.

"Denied."

"All cases are open for review by Aurors," Harry argued.

"Except when the witch or wizard offers up valuable information in exchange for a private trial and viewings," Tonks said dryly. "As is the case of one, Ronald Weasley, which I have told you several times."

"But you've also stated that his case file is being used for our current case and all relevant material is guaranteed to all those working on the case. It's a matter of safety."

"Look at you, you almost sound like Hermione, unfortunately you don't quite have her passion," Tonks teased. "So your still denied."

"But Hermione wouldn't be?" Harry snapped.

"She would be denied, but at least she would be genuinely upset about it. You just look like you've been given permission to do something stupid." Tonks drew a piece a paper out of her pocket, slapping it down on the desk. "So to keep you out of trouble and away from Headquarters before you try to break in anywhere… I want you to go hunt down these witches and wizards, they may or may not have a connection to Elone Pep Trearacel and I'd like you to figure it out."

Harry picked up the list and paled as it flipped over itself, expanding until it was halfway to the floor.

"Best to get moving," Tonks added. "Be thorough!"


	18. Chapter 14 Potion Master's Assisstant

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 14: The Potion Master's Assistant

Benedict Rustic was a very short man. When Harry walked into the Potion's shop, he almost missed him altogether. As he was wandering the shelves for the fifth time, a pattern emerged among the vials. Out of the ones he recognized and ones he didn't there was an oddly large number of rare potions here.

"Can I help you?"

Harry turned to see a man who barely hovered over his elbows, but who possessed a larger than normal head. The combination left Harry feeling the need to step back, in case the man needed room to navigate.

"Rustic?"

The man glanced upwards, spotting the scar.

"Potter?"

Harry flashed his Auror badge, to which the short man tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"Yes, I'm Rustic, what can I do for the Ministry?"

"I'm looking for a woman, Elone Pep Trearacel, claiming to be a Potion Master, selling shoddy Potions on the market."

"And you think you'll find her in my shop?"

"I think she's moved her work elsewhere. I think you know the location of said place."

"Best to leave riddles to Ravenclaws, eh?" Rustic suggested.

"I'm looking for the Nox Wrack. Heard of it?"

Rustic's lips pulled back in a half snarl.

"I don't make no dealings there."

"You sure?" Harry pulled out papers from his infinitely expanded wallet. "Seems you've come into an unnatural amount of rare potions lately."

"Cause I got me a gim…" Rustic paused, pulling a face, before starting again. "I've got a new assistant who has a talent for finding rare herbs. All my potions are brewed in the basement. Check it out if you want."

"And this assistant?"

Rustic glanced outside, squinting at the light.

"He'll be up soon."

Harry checked his watch. It was near two-o-clock in the afternoon. Rustic took in Harry's disbelieving look and returned it with an eyeroll.

"He travels for herbs at night."

"Perfectly reasonable. Not at all suspicious," Harry drawled. "What's his name?"

Rustic sputtered.

"It's… Dray or Drago or something," the shop owner muttered, waving his hand dismissively. "Never call him by his name."

"Why's that?" Harry asked, his suspicion rising ten knots.

"Er… it's not important, is it? He comes when I call him, that's what's important," Rustic spat, flustered and snarling.

"Then I think you should call him," Harry said in impatience.

A crash caused them both to turn. A voice Harry recognized, but had a hard time believing echoed from the next room over. Familiar, favored curse words. A voice distinct, both gruff and warm, so rare to find.

Harry felt stuck to his spot, staring at the wall as if it had announced a heard of Inferi were outside waiting for him. The sound of objects being moved about and fidgeting reached the pair. Harry waiting with baited breath, anxiety swelling up, Rustic in unhindered annoyance.

"What the hell have you managed to break now?" Rustic growled.

There was silence for a moment.

"Probably the vase that has your dead mother in it. It smells awful," came the reply, in _his_ voice. Ron Weasley followed this announcement. Though he was sporting brown hair. Harry stared at the bizarre scene, looking around the building to make sure he was still in the Potion's shop. That he was still working a case and hadn't stumbled through a door in the Department of Mysteries instead. It wouldn't come to mind until much, _much_ later that the list had come from Tonks and that he'd been set up.

"What charm are you wearing?" Rustic asked, voice puzzled.

"Shut up," Ron growled. "Shut your gob, Ben, shut it now."

"What are you doing here?!" Harry finally found his voice.

"I'm working," Ron told him casually, but it was in _that_ voice. The voice he used when he was placating Hermione. The voice he used when he was trying very hard not to argue. The voice he used when he knew he was in deep shit and just wanted to disappear into the floor. The tenseness hidden well beneath 'I'm trying my best not to make this worse,' tone.

"Oh," Harry paused. Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry knew that Ron would have to find work. It wasn't like Ron could just disappear and reappear into existence when Harry saw him. But the idea of Ron having a life of his own, outside of Harry's life was a bizarre concept. Ron belonged by Harry's side and maybe that was part of his delusion, but anything contrasting that thought left him feeling jarred and stiff.

"You know each other?" Rustic's voice cut through, looking incredulously at Ron who shrugged non-committedly.

Then it clicked.

"Are _you_ the Potion's assistant?" Harry asked, feeling a sick feeling in his stomach wind up to his lungs, squeezing them. The shady secretive Potion's assistant Harry suspected of illegal activities just mere moments ago. Ron titled his head as if listening for something before turning towards Rustic.

"Is that what my position is?"

"Fits the description," Rustic grumbled.

"You don't know what your own job is called?" Harry demanded, thrown off _again_ by the oddity of the situation.

Ron shrugged.

"I never asked. He offered me a job. I took it. He tells me what to fetch, I fetch it."

"Anything he needs, you just… go and get it."

"Bit more than that, but yeah, Leif and I travel to one forest or another and then she helps me find whatever it is we need."

Harry remembered what Hermione had told him about the small creature.

"The fire fairy?" Harry asked.

Ron nodded.

"Uh huh," Harry said, feeling as if he'd taken a left turn into the Department of Mysteries and found himself in another dimension. "Let's… I… move… just…"

Ron's shoulder's sagged in resignation.

"There's a back room for storage. We've got Lion's heckle in there so its sound proof to keep the noise down," Ron suggested.

Harry nodded.

"I own a Potion's shop," Rustic growled. "Not a meeting spot for hooligans to hang."

"Just keep telling yourself that, old boy," Ron waved arrogantly. Rustic went five shades red, looking about ready to shout, but the bell to the shop jingled, announcing customers. The man looked torn between having a conniption fit and making money. Finally, he turned towards the front of the shop.

"Helloooo! How can I help you ladies?"

Harry followed Ron into the said room, wincing as a small roaring yellow flower snapped in his direction. Ron, without looking, pinched blue dust in his fingers from a bag to the side and dropped it into the maw of the deceptively soft looking petals. The flower snarled before going silent.

"That will give us half an hour, tops," Ron told him. He gestured to two chairs, taking one himself. "You didn't know I was here."

It wasn't a question, but Harry answered it anyways.

"No idea."

Ron drummed his fingers… Harry stared. Ron drummed his nine fingers. Nine. Harry jerked, moving to grab Ron's hand before pulling back. There had been ten when he last saw Ron.

' _What charm are you wearing?'_ Rustic had demanded. Ron had shut him up quick. Stopped him from saying anything else. Harry couldn't believe he didn't notice before. The brown hair had distracted him, well, Ron Weasley had distracted him. But the lack of familiar red had been so disorientating that Harry hadn't looked anywhere else. Ron was, more than likely, hiding more than the missing finger.

"So, this is a case?" Ron asked, drawing his attention away from the still tapping fingers. Ron hadn't seemed to notice Harry's move to touch him or his withdrawal. Maybe Harry wasn't the only one thrown off guard by the others presence. Obviously. It wasn't like Harry had announced he'd be coming. The loud bang earlier… Ron must have spotted him first, taken the precious seconds available to him to recover. "What is it that you needed from Ben?"

"Who?" Harry asked blankly.

"The short guy downstairs? The shop owner? Ben?"

Right. Rustic's first name was Benedict.

The case. His questions. Harry was working. Supposed to be, anyway.

"I'm looking for a place called Nox Wrack."

Ron stiffened from head to toe, but his voice, when he spoke, was far too casual.

"The black market," Ron hummed, "I know it's by a wizarding town up north. Underground. Headed by Goblins. Whole place is like the Gringott's bank, only instead of chambers for money, their shop windows."

"You've been there?" Harry practically yelled, not quite believing his luck.

Ron winced.

"Yes," Ron admitted. He held himself, still stiffly, but forcing one leg to stretch out, making his back bend as he leaned against the chair. It looked forced and unnatural.

"When?" Harry jumped at the lead, a break in the case making his words rushed and short. "I mean…" Harry stared blankly at Ron, taking in the way his eyes refused to meet his own. The bit down bed nails of fingers Ron clenched and unclenched across from him. The physical ticks were a demonstration of nerves or anxiety concerning a black market underground, signs that tended to point to guilt. Perkins had explained once as they watched a man being interrogated. It's what the Aurors referred to as a criminal squirming, tense for the moment when their caught. It was the criminal part of that thought that sent waves of doubt running through Harry's mind and before he could stop them the accusation left his lips. "What were you doing in a black market, Ron?"

There were more freckles on his face than the last time Harry had seen him. Which said a lot. They spread out, marking brown against pale white, normally clashing against red hair, they now melded with the shaggy locks that half hid Ron's eyes from his own.

"Nothing. I wasn't doing anything," Ron muttered, but he was doing that thing, dragging his fingers through his hair, the motion saying he was definitely doing something. Beat his fingers against his leg or knee or table as he used to during exams. When Ron had something on his mind he'd wring his hands in front of him absentmindedly, drum them if the thoughts stressed him out. It was the movement, Harry had always guessed, the necessity to move and do something when Ron felt like he couldn't do anything else. It always seemed to fail though, 'cause Ron would always end up standing and walking around after too long.

Fred and George used to joke that there was a betting pool for Ron going bald before any of his brothers because he tugged so hard at his hair when stressed. Harry could see the small patch to the right where it was truth. Just above the ear where Ron had torn his hair out. Those long fingers hovered over that exact spot, fingers tightening as they gripped the little hair left there, still refusing to look at him.

' _Liar.'_

"Don't!" Ron hissed. But it wasn't the Ron sitting in the seat looking ready to tear his own hair out. Until that moment, his delusions had remained silent. "Don't you dare call me a liar. I have never lied to you," delusion Ron growled, half angry, half hurt. "I may not tell you things, but I don't lie to you."

"You were just passing through then?" Harry drawled, ignoring the delusion in favor of the living, breathing flesh. "Just going for a stroll in a secret Dealers hangout where only the lowest scum thrive?"

Hair came loose.

"Harry," the real Ron said weakly, "I swear, I…"

"I told you not to call me that!" Harry snapped. Feeling all the old emotions of fury bubbling to the surface. "You don't get to talk to me like we're friends."

Harry stood to leave, fighting the urge to fling himself at Ron, because he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to punch him or hug him to death. Ron lurched to his feet as well and Harry found Ron's overly large hands grasping hard onto his arm.

"Let me start over," Ron begged.

"Don't," the delusion told him sternly. "Don't let me get close to you again, Harry, it will only hurt more in the end. I won't lie to you, ever, but I will withhold the truth. You don't know what happened. You don't know… let this drop. Leave."

Harry glanced at it, arms crossed and looking so real, but the real Ron had his fingers wrapped around his arm and he found himself folding. How could he ever ignore this? It was easier to stay mad when he could think of Ron from a distance, when he could argue with a fake in his head. But this?

Harry gripped the hand stopping him from leaving. Squeezing gently.

"Yeah," Harry croaked. "Okay."

The real Ron sagged while the fake one stiffened, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fake, looking upset, disappear. Ron's fingers were cold and stiff, but real. Blood flowing through them, flesh lining the knuckles and hand, solid and real.

"Okay, okay… um, shit, I know I sound like a girl right now, but…" Ron's voice was thick and the distinct sound of him sniffling went ignored by Harry. "I'm afraid of letting your arm go." His ex-best friend laughed, a hysterical note to it. "This is the opposite of what I just promised. I'm sorry. Give me a second."

Harry didn't say anything because he was just as terrified of being let go.

"How about…" Ron shifted, swallowing hard, starting again. "How you tell me about what your looking for at Nox Wrack and we go from there?"

Harry fell back into his seat, nodding dumbly.

"Do you want tea?" Ron asked.

Harry choked on his laugh.

"Yeah, yeah I think I'd love some."

* * *

"You did this on purpose," Harry accused, laying down the list of Potion Masters and the districts assigned to him. Tonks raised her eyebrows at him. Harry pointed down at the list. "You knew, somehow, Kingsley or somebody told you where Ron was working. The first case I work outside of hunting Death Eater's on the run and I happen to run into Ron while working the case you insisted I take?"

Tonks shrugged.

"It's been six months, Harry, don't you think it's time you and Hermione tried talking to him?"

"I could go the rest of my life not talking to Ron Weasley and it wouldn't be any of your business," Harry snapped. "You had no right to set me up like that."

Tonks didn't need to know how much he'd needed it.

"How was he?" Tonks asked.

"What?"

"How was he?" Tonks repeated.

"Perfectly fine," Harry slumped into the chair across from her. "He looked… fine. He's got a good job and… there's nothing wrong with him. He joked. He smiled. He teased. He was… Ron. Like nothing happened."

"That doesn't sound right," Tonks said.

"I know!" Harry exploded. "Nothing about it felt right. I just…"

"Everything gets to Ron. Everything. He comes back from a war though, and nothing?"

Tonks spoke slowly, her voice sounding guilty, but her eyes were pleading with him to understand.

"Your leading me. You and Kingsley were at his trial. You declared him innocent. It's a confidential case, you won't even let me see it, and yet your using information from the case to lead me somewhere," Harry accused.

Tonks shrugged.

"There are cases that need to be taken care of, people who need to be taken care of, I'm simply multitasking to align my own agenda."

"Moody would never admit to something like that," Harry pointed out, sagging further into his chair.

"It's what made him a great Auror," Tonks agreed. "But there are all sorts of ways to be great, I don't have to take his path. My path is being as honest as I'm legally capable of."

"It doesn't matter how much you lead. It still doesn't change anything."

"Do you want him back in your life?"

"Of course," Harry snapped. "But that doesn't mean I can forgive him for what he's done yet. Just because I want him back, doesn't mean he deserves it. It doesn't mean that everything's fixed."

"You have to start somewhere. Ignoring his existence will only make all of this worse."

"What the hell is all of _this_ anyways?" Harry demanded. "What exactly is it? He says he gave Riddle everything. You say Ron gave nothing willingly. And none of that explains why he didn't come back. None of it tells me why he stayed gone for so long or where the hell he's been."

"You know where he's been," Tonks said softly. "You know."

Harry glared at the floor.

"In a prison cell, is the obvious answer, the only one that makes sense to me," Harry agreed. Harry buried his face in his hands. "There's only two things I'm condemning him for, screw the information, screw Voldemort. The only things I can think about are how horrible everything's been without him here. How terrible it was to see him leave ad to not come back. Only time can heal that. I can't... I can't face him yet."

"If you don't face him now, then you may lose him forever," Tonks warned. "It's been just as long for him, you know? Longer, in fact, because the war isn't over for Ron Weasley. He's come back and he's still all alone. For him, it's been two and a half years, Harry. I'm not saying you must forgive him. I'm saying that if you give up before you even try, then you'll never know if you could have. And that idea, that maybe things could be good again for you and Hermione, isn't that worth fighting for?"

"I couldn't even be in his presence for more than twenty minutes."

"Then be in his presence for less than twenty minutes a thousand more times. Eventually it will be twenty-one minutes."

* * *

"What does it say?" Ron asked, impatient and anxious.

"Oh, you want to know what it says, do you?" Ben purred, the sound of a paper flapping back and forth reached his ears. "But you don't know?"

Ron snatched the paper from the man. Crinkling it. The owl who had delivered it was still in the window of the Potion's shop, nibbling at the treat Ben had gifted her. Ron squinted at the thin paper in his hands. Fine paper. He knew by the wax insignia of the Ministry stamped upon the top. The seal still warm from where the wax had been melted.

No amount of squinting revealed what was before him though. Only darkness with a few glimmering shades of light here and there where charms danced protectively about. There was even a large lamp like purple light in the corner. A potion that had been magicked for preservation. No paper though. No ink. No writing. Blackness.

Ron heard a customer coming inside the shop. Heavy footsteps. Heavy, but not the familiar sound of boots. Rather, body weight. The feminine heavy breathing told him it was a large woman walking through the door. Not an unexpected drop in from Harry James Potter then that sent him scrambling for his charm.

Like the other day.

That had nearly given him a heart attack. He'd been right lucky to pull the charm from his pocket and around his neck. Now though, Ron walked into the front of the shop with no glamor charm at all, only his muggle dyed brown hair and cursed face.

"Good grief!" The woman shrieked, a heavy foot took a step back and he could hear her collecting herself. Ron waved the reaction away, holding out the paper.

" 'ello! Do you think you can do me the good deed of the day by reading this out loud?" Ron asked.

"Well, I… that's not contagious, is it?"

"Would the old bent, Ben, back there have hired me if I endangered him in any way?" Ron threw back.

"I don't know this Ben," the woman mumbled, taking the note anyways.

"The shop owner, Rustic," Ron amended, forgetting that most didn't even know the Potion Master's first name. The woman chuckled. Muttering agreements under her breath as he listened to the sound of glasses being straightened.

"Mr. Ronald Weasley…" there was a pause where Ron felt the woman staring at him. The air didn't necessarily feel tense, but the long consideration wasn't exactly warm either. "The Auror Department requires your presence to further discuss the case brought to your attention three days prior. Your specialization and experience makes you uniquely qualified to assist us. We request your presence at Auror Headquarters on this day, March 6th, at 4p.m sharp, at the Diagone Alley location. Sincerely Tonks Lupin."

Thick fingers folded around his, startling him out of his stunned silence. The paper was slipped into his much longer ones.

"What sort of specialization could a boy like you have?" The woman asked, though it sounded as if her thoughts had simply gotten away from her rather than a direct inquisition of his talents.

"Thanks," Ron grunted, turning away from the customer, ignoring the unsaid words between them. Ron folded the paper up, stretching his shoulders and wondering what time it was and if he should be hurrying out the door.

What did he look like?

He shaved, more out of joy in being able to than anything else, every single morning, but his hair had grown out again, Matted and passed his ears, framing his face in what must have been a brilliant impersonation of Sirius Black. Coupled with his height and evident limp, he supposed he probably looked like some nightmare out of a child's story book even with the charm on.

His clothes too were worn down to just above homeless status. He'd sewn the torn sleeves and ripped shirts from traveling the woods half a dozen times but since he couldn't claim to see the rips there wasn't a person on earth who could convince him the job hadn't been a disaster. He didn't even know if he used the same color thread for it.

It would be like the adult version of the Yule Ball. Hideous robes hadn't stopped him from showing up and making a fool of himself though and shoddy, falling apart clothes wouldn't stop him now.

"Leif!" Ron hollered up the stairs, limping as fast as he could. "We're going out. Pick something pretty to wear!"

"If you think you're using my floo powder," Ben called, "you have another thing coming!"

"Too late!" Ron called down the stairs, cradling Gibson into his inner coat pocket and slipping the glamor charm around his neck. "I've used it four times already!"

He was bouncing on his good leg. Up and down, overly excited like a child.

He was going to see… er, be around Harry again. Tonks had rigged this somehow and Ron would be able to _sit_ in the same room as Harry. He would be able to be himself with Harry. The thought left him feeling breathless and exhilarated.

 _I hate you._

Ron stilled, remembering Harry's words from six months ago. Right. Well, sure, it wouldn't be like old times. Harry really wouldn't want anything to do with him. It would be about the case. It would be like it was half a week ago. The accidental meeting that had been over before Ron even really realized it was happening.

 _You don't get to talk to me like we're friends._

Suddenly he wasn't so eager. It was easy to play a part. Too long Ron had been cornered like an animal, forced to play one part or another in order to survive or fight. He wasn't sure if he knew how to be himself.

When Harry had surprised him, he'd taken up the mantle he showed in front of Rebastan when he visited. 'The devil may care, but I don't' act. It was meant to be nonplussed, to be unmovable. Harry had broken it a little. It hadn't been quite up to snuff, but it had been good enough.

But he'd see Harry again.

Leif landed on his shoulder, blue hair flickering wildly as it lengthened and shortened. Ron raised a knuckle, meeting the fire fairy's cheek.

"Will you be my eyes?" Ron asked.

' _Till mine burn out.'_

Ron stole a handful of floo powder and they were gone.


	19. Chapter 15: Potter and Weasley

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 15: Potter and Weasley

Ron was coming.

The conference room had been set up for 4 p.m and each tick of the clock was like ants across Harry's skin. The Auror team assigned to the Elone Pep Trearacel case consisted of Harry, Aiden, Ferris and Keegan. Keegan was an older Auror Harry had worked with half a dozen times, who would be acting Captain.

He flipped open the woman's case file again as he made his way to the conference room. One of the first potions distributed was one that had been meant as a glamor. An altered version of the Polyjuice potion using a person's own hair. The victim claimed the potion was supposed to enhance a person's own natural beauty for the duration of eight to fifteen hours. Only the affects had not been beauty at all, but had instead transfigured the woman into something more grotesque. Not only had the woman's features been morphed but it had given the woman permanent brain damage.

The second victim had taken a simple hair loss prevention potion and it had ended in parts of his body engorged. One leg had lengthened to six feet and no matter what those in St. Mungo's had done to try to undo the potions affects, it was not working.

Harry stepped into the conference room to find both Aiden and Ferris were already there with their own case files sitting open though they were arguing about Quidditch. When Ferris spotted him, the man waved him over, eternally social despite Harry's continued frosty demeanor.

Harry, for once, grinned and joined them. Aiden's disapproving look towards Ferris turned to surprise and the man shared a look with Ferris. Neither commented on Harry's change in attitude.

"I hear you met Krum once, what was the bloke like?" Ferris demanded. "Looks quite savage in his pictures."

"He's actually a pretty nice bloke. He doesn't speak the best English, but even if that wasn't the case, I'm pretty sure that he would remain just as straight forward and blunt." Harry added after a moment. "Honorable and proud."

"What Potter means is that he was a bit of a badass despite being dumb as bricks," a familiar voice said quietly as he walked in. Harry's head snapped to the door to see Ron standing there awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest and glancing in their direction. He could see the fire fairy sitting on his shoulder, whispering something in Ron's ear.

The name Potter struck Harry as wrong as soon as the words were out of Ron's mouth, but he'd told Ron twice now that he couldn't call his name in a familiar manner. It was his own fault.

He just hadn't expected Ron to listen to him.

From next to him, he saw Ferris openly gaping at the doorway. As if the image of Ronald Weasley standing there was too much to comprehend. It threw Harry off guard, who was used to being gapped at, but wasn't so used to having the look geared towards someone else in the room. Ron didn't seem to notice. Instead, he kept himself held back, watching the Aurors in the room as if they might attack him at any moment.

"You're our source?!" Ferris shouted in surprise. He turned to Aiden. "That's Ronald Weasley!" Aiden was subtler, half turned away, reading over some case files, but the man's eyes would slide Ron's way every few seconds.

"I can see that," Aiden intoned darkly, jamming Ferris in the ribs when Ron turned to glance outside the door.

"So happy you could join us, Mr. Weasley," a voice spoke up behind Ron. Ron limped into the room, allowing Keegan to come through the doorway. The broad-shouldered man grabbed Ron's arm and guided him along as if he might change his mind and bolt for the hills. "I don't know if you remember me, but we met during your trial? I'm Keegan Lester. It's a bit early, but since you're all here early, let's go ahead and get started."

"Can we back up a second and discuss why we have a war traitor in the room with us?" Ferris demanded.

Harry sat up straight even as Ron hunched in on himself. Taller than Keegan and with such broad shoulders, it seemed impossible that Ron could do anything but dominate the presence in the conference room, but now he was doing a fine job of trying to become part of the desk he'd sat on.

"I wasn't aware you needed a physical exam, Mr. Morehill, I'll schedule an appointment for you right after this meeting. The Clinic is pretty full, but it should only keep you a few hours after work," Keegan said slowly.

"Sir?"

"Clearly your eyes need to be checked," Keegan clarified. "It is essential for a field agent to be at their best and if you need glasses then we must get you glasses."

"There isn't anything wrong with my eyes."

"Really? Because I don't see any war traitors here." The silence in the room was interrupted only by the rustling of papers. Keegan wrote a note that soon folded itself into a crane, taking flight and disappearing from the room. "Your appointment is with Auror Prang at 5:30 this evening. Don't be late."

"You can't be serious!" Ferris growled. "There's nothing wrong with me! It's him that…"

"You can either go to the appointment I set for you or you can walk out of this case all together," Keegan announced. The man seemed neither bothered by what was being said or amused by the proceedings, simply expectant.

"I had plans after work," Ferris protested weakly.

"Consider this a lesson in not letting your mouth run away from you then," Keegan stated without missing a beat. "Now, Mr. Weasley was kind enough to assist us on this case, briefing us on the ins and outs of the notorious Nox Wrack. My subordinates here, to my left and right, are Aiden Grey…" Here Aiden held up his hand. "And Ferris Morehill." Ferris grunted in acknowledgement, leaning back against the wall with forced casualness.

"It's… erm…" Ron rubbed the back of his head. "Good to see you as well and to be working with everyone."

Keegan simply nodded before continuing.

"Pay attention everyone. We received confirmation just this afternoon that Elone is indeed selling her potions on the black market there."

"I think what needs to be brought up first," Aiden interrupted, "is that our original analysis is wrong. I don't think Elone is selling faulty potions at all."

"What about this isn't faulty?" Ferris stabbed at the files of the victims.

"Think about it. These aren't mistakes, these are _alterations_ on potions and it seems the intent is to make them permanent. This witch isn't selling faulty potions, she's doing live human experimentation," Aiden announced.

It sounded right. Now that he thought about it, even while he was looking through the case file, he'd thought of them more as alterations than mistakes.

"Suppose this theory is correct," Keegan said slowly, "it seems like a big chance to sell them at Nox Wrack. These aren't the type of people she can experiment on and get away with it. These types would skin her alive if they caught her selling experimental potions to them."

"She could be buying."

Harry turned to Ron. His friend's ears turned red at the attention, looking down at his lap.

"What sort of stuff would she be buying?" Keegan asked, trying to keep the discussion rolling, almost as if he were a teacher drawing them to a conclusion he already knew. It was what made him such a good Captain. Both Harry and Aiden were newbies to an Auror Career and they both appreciated the lead in the investigations. It helped them when they were forced to work with others to know how the investigations were run. Ferris was a decent bloke, but he wasn't one for pausing and going through the motions for his less experienced team.

"Supplies for her experiments, but probably livestock too," Ron stated with a shrug.

"Livestock?"

"Humans, magical creatures, half-breeds; during the war there was an abundance of Snatchers who'd pick up anyone and if you didn't have a price tag on you then they'd sell you on the black market. Chances are since she's been caught experimenting on free people, she's probably gonna go for the not so free ones. Means she can keep them for further study too."

There was a tense silence that followed Ron's casual speech on _slavery_ and Harry felt himself looking anywhere but at this person Harry thought he knew. The Ron he knew would be furious just speaking about it. He would look ashamed to mention such terrible things, he would be pacing in agitation, but this Ron… it was like he was talking about what chaotic creature Hagrid would be bringing to class next.

"I knew about the prisons and the slaughter… but I didn't know about this," Aiden said, looking ashen.

"That's another level of low. How come this wasn't seen in the Snatchers trials?" Ferris hissed, throwing a disgusted look Ron's way.

"Probably because the ones who were involved in it were too smart to get caught," Ron mused. "Nox Wrack has a floo system that's just as advanced as the Ministry and if you're a merchant- a Snatcher acting as merchant, anyway, you probably have one of their tattoos."

"Tattoos?" Keegan asked.

Ron nodded, gesturing to his left wrist.

"So, there's two types of tattoos anyone who enters Nox Wrack possesses, the first is on the left wrist. It's the coat of arms for the Lestrange family, who founded the place alongside goblins after the 1612 Goblin Rebellion, but it has a magical incantation that goes along with it that I don't know. If you have the tattoo, but not the magical insignia, then you'll be ousted the moment you step foot in there."

"And what's the second?" Aiden asked.

Ron tapped his neck.

"Tracker in your neck. You'll find this one was much more popular as it was put not only in the slaves to be sold, but all the prisoners from Numberland to the Gallows. It's a burn mark on the skin with the prisons symbol attached, marking one as less than human, and these slaves were sold through the floo system they created. Moved through the prisons like livestock."

"I don't see neither on you," Ferris observed.

Ron leaned forward, a savage grin on his face as he tapped his neck, a small scar appearing along the vein in his neck. A black like burn showing where something had been removed.

"I was part of the merchandise."

* * *

Ron rubbed at his wrists, willing the burning feeling, the rise of red skin and blood pooling from pores, to stop. His hands paused at the missing finger, the burned flesh around the nub. He could already hear them. The roaring of prices above everything else.

' _How much you want for him?'_

' _85 gallons. Ain't got no blemishes, young, hasn't been tumbled yet.'_

' _Not been broken in either though.'_

' _Can't be helped. Fresh off the market.'_

' _Muggleborn?'_

' _That's the real beauty, he's a pure blood.'_

' _No, you're not sayin'… is this a Weasley?'_

' _That he is, a real… Spitfire.'_

Gibson was curled up against his chest, nails digging into his rib cage and holding perfectly still. As if, even though he was invisible and hiding within his coat, the Aurors would somehow be able to find him.

He looked up to see the other three Aurors magical cores. Harry's magic strong, but unsteady, a kindle of kindness and defiance shining through in equal measures. Beside him stood a man whose core flickered in thoughts, a calm yet curious manner about him, leaving Ron to wonder if this was Ferris Morehill or Aiden Grey.

The second Auror beside Harry had a core that screamed passion and emotions, not thoughts, but impressions of everything around him. He was much more difficult to pin point in terms of nature. Ron had come across people like this before and figured it was simply a lack of experience and his own lack of understanding.

It wasn't like he had someone who could help him muddle his way through this. He'd never heard of this type of ability before and while Ron had come to think of Ben as a grumpy sort of benefactor, he wasn't trustworthy enough to tell about the strange magic. The man knew too much as is.

Ron wasn't a very complex person. There probably wasn't a single person in England less qualified to understand the meaning of magical cores than him. He only recognized, maybe, one third of the subtle shifts the magical cores demonstrated. Most of the 'tones' he saw were things Ron didn't understand. A more complex person could probably read them or maybe he'd be able to pick up on what it meant with time. Though time wasn't really a luxury at his disposal.

The familiar aura of Keegan moved. He felt a body lean against him and place a hand on his shoulder, gently, as if afraid to startle him.

"Still with us?"

Ron jerked his head up, nodding sheepishly.

"Yeah. Sorry, right… I was…" Ron scratched at his wrist again. "Lost myself for a second."

"That's alright," one of the Aurors next to Harry said. "No harm no foul."

Ron pushed his thoughts away from him, trying to imagine Harry standing in front of him rather than the strange shadow. He wondered if Harry had grown any taller or if he was still the short shrimp he'd been when Ron left him. If he'd been forced to do anything with his unruly hair since he had a professional job now. Moody's hair never looked tame, but Ron could hardly imagine someone walking up to him to say 'listen you crazy nut case, we all know you're off your rocker, but it would be great if no one outside of the department knew that. Put that shit up in a ponytail or shave it off!'

Ron continued.

"I was caught by Snatchers and sold to a Death Eater who 'held' me for the Lestrange's for a few weeks." Ron continued, ignoring the way Ferris had begun to look green. "Goyle and Mulciber picked me up. Glamors covering the mark right now, mind you, I didn't think it wise to walk around with it on me."

Ron told him all he could about the workings inside and out of Nox Wrack. Anything to make the tension between him and Harry less than it was. He needed Harry back.

* * *

 _You know where he's been. You know._

In the silence that followed Ron's confession, only Tonks words could be heard in his head. Jack rabbiting off the walls of his skull. Ferris had clamped up. Keegan looked unsurprised. Aiden was now the one who couldn't meet anyone's eyes.

Ron… hadn't stopped talking at all.

He went on to talk about the guards at the entrance, always at least two at the door. Ron went on to explain the levels, all one hundred of them, we're separated by what they sold. The shops were set up along cliff edges, the open pit in the middle meant to frighten buyers and as a warning that the merchants of Nox Wrack held _all_ the authority.

Harry felt lost.

Ron was still there, talking to them about Nox Wrath, as if he hadn't just admitted that he'd been sold as merchandise the last time he had been inside its walls. Harry could barely keep up, despite Ron's slow speech. Harry was stumbling in his thoughts. Tripping over the whirlwind of images and implications running through it, while all the while…

 _You know where he's been. You know._

Ron told them about the merchants and the trade, about how the guards were the same each day, but that the shops themselves, their locations on the 100 levels changed every day so that only those who sought to buy could find them. He spoke of level 40, how it was the start of the trafficking levels, how number 67 was 'the stage' where creatures and humans were sold. He did this all in a clinical manner. As if none of it affected him in any way.

And soon enough it was over and Keegan was shaking Ron's hand and reminding Ferris of his 'appointment.' Soon enough Aiden was packing up and quietly thanking Ron and Ron was… glancing at him hopefully. He was the fourteen-year-old who was waiting at the edge of the first task, pale and shaking and looking ready to puke, an apology on his lips that Harry didn't want anymore.

"Hermione's waiting for me," Harry blurted out.

Ron, turning stoic at his words, neutral and infuriatingly calm, stated.

"You should go to her then."

The kicked puppy look was gone. As if Harry had taken Ron's hope and crushed it in front of his face. He didn't want that. He wanted Ron back. He wanted to fix this. He wanted…

"Come with me?"

Ron's face melted, his mouth trembling as he tried to speak, but gave up, nodding instead. Harry felt relief fill him. Then he cringed as he realized he wasn't sure how Hermione would react to this, though from the hundreds of letters she'd crumbled up on the office of her floor, he'd take she'd find this acceptable. She, even more so than him, was torn up about it and struggling not with 'what if' she should go but the awkwardness of How. How to approach Ron. How to talk to Ron. How to start things off. How to bring things to the way they were without ignoring it.

Harry started walking towards the door and was startled when Ron limped heavily behind him. Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, giving another jerk of a nod. Then he gestured for Ron to follow. The little fire fairy whispered in Ron's ear and his ex-best friend picked up a walking stick set beside him and limped after him.

He forgot about that. Harry slowed down to allow Ron to catch up, resisting the urge to ask. Ron had limped at the Potion Shop. Ron himself wasn't paying any attention to his walking. His eyes were darting from place to place, listening carefully to everything the fire fairy told him. Harry strained his ears, but he couldn't pick up on anything she was saying.

Ron had always had to slow down for he and Hermione to keep pace with him. It was a cruel sort of irony that Harry now had to slow his own walking in order for Ron to keep up with him. It was odd to watch. The intense look of concentration on Ron's face, as if they were playing a quidditch match, as they made their way through the Auror Headquarters. He seemed to pick up every sound, flinching or dodging with an awkwardness that was worse than his teen years as he walked. Harry slowed until he was walking right next to Ron and nearly jumped when Ron clutched at his arm like it was a lifeline.

"There's a lot more people here than when I got here," Ron hissed. Harry winced as Ron's hands tightened on his arm, watching as Ron looked about ready to jump out of his skin.

"Everyone is heading home…" Harry tugged Ron in the direction of the ports. Worried at how stiff and frantic Ron seemed. "Here, lets get you out of here, yeah? Let's…"

A head poke out of Ron's jacket. Harry nearly jumped, but managed to smooth the motion out before Ron noticed. The fury little creature was clutching the front of Ron's jacket, eyeing Harry wearily.

"When did you become a menagerie? We didn't even take Hagrid's advanced courses."

Ron kept his eyes down, looking at Harry's shoulder, refusing to look up into the crowd.

"Sort of just happened," Ron muttered. "You'd think my charm would have scared them off, but they've latched on to me like Neville in a Potion's class."

"Like their lives depend on you, you mean?" Harry grinned, thinking fondly of the plant loving Gryffindor. Ron nodded, swallowing thickly, and Harry found Ron nudging up against him. "I still need to walk, you know."

"Sorry," Ron loosened, but only marginally. There was terror in every line of his body and Harry increased their pace, trying to support Ron as his feet stumbled harshly under him, not being able to handle the fast movements.

Someone hit Ron's shoulder and he flinched hard enough that _Harry_ felt it.

"We're almost at the ports," noticing Ron refusing to look up, he added, "there's not a lot of people there."

Ron seemed to ease his grip once the river of people thinned. Most individuals leaving the Auror Headquarters preferred to dissaparate rather than use the floo system built in. Caused too much dust and ash to build up in the living rooms of people's homes, Tonks claimed. Harry had used the floo system so infrequently that the thought had never really occurred to him. Mostly, the floos were for families who had too many children to dissaparate or the Ministry for safety reasons. There were so many layers of enchantments around the Auror HQ though and it allowed only those who carried a badge to be able to apparate in and out.

"Sorry, I fucked it up," Ron muttered.

"No, no, its okay," Harry reassured, his own thoughts turning rapidly as he gripped Ron's elbow.

A sickening feeling was spreading like poison through his heart.

Harry was _relieved._

Ron had seemed so put together each time they met. Now though, it was _relieving_ to see him breaking, human of him. Before, Ron had been guilty as sin, but it had seemed as if he'd made it through the war, from being held captive, perfectly fine. Heartbroken, but not _broken_.

Harry hadn't known what to say to that, how to react. Ron had always been someone who had such passion about _everything_ and who had an opinion about both the mundane and the extreme. Ron, to Harry, embodied movement and energy. He was affected by everything and showed things so honestly. Ron _couldn't_ lie to Harry even if he wanted to. It was just who Ron was.

The person he'd become, subdued and calm, unaffected by anything, was so far away from the person Harry was familiar with that he hadn't been able to connect his best friend with this stranger. Not until now.

And that thought was eating him alive. That Ron breaking down was almost exciting to him. He didn't enjoy Ron's pain, but being able to see it and read it in the lines of Ron's movements and in his features felt like a breath of fresh air.

"I'll send Hermione a message to meet us at the house," Harry announced, already pulling out his wand.

"House? Your house?" Ron said, looking unsure. "I don't… I mean, will Hermione be okay with that? That's a really big step… leap! That's…"

Harry released his patronus and sent Hermione the message, ignoring Ron's stuttering.

"Harry… I mean Potter," Ron corrected, voice frantic and looking like he was falling into a panic again. "Please, I don't think…"

Harry took Ron around the waist and pulled him bodily towards the floo.

"Do me a favor, Ron? Never call me Potter again."


	20. Chapter 16: Who Are You?

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 16: Who Are You?

The nightmares always ensured Harry found his way down to the kitchen each evening. He'd taken to leaving the chessboard out because Ron would _always_ be there, waiting for him. During these moments, these silent little wavering, shaking, trembling moments in the middle of the night, Ron never spoke. Not one word.

At first Harry had been fine with that.

He hadn't wanted to talk to Ron at all when he first started appearing.

Now though, it was in the night when he'd ask questions. When he would demand answers from the redhead. Where had he disappeared? Was he dead? Was he real? And when he was feeling especially angry… did Ron really betray him? But Ron only ever told him the same thing over and over and over again.

I fought and I lost.

"But what does that _mean_?" Harry begged.

But Ron, whose eyes were haunted and hallow and hurting, only waited silently for him to announce his first move. So they played. Harry repeating Ron's moves out loud as the red head announced them so that the pieces could move. Because, for some reason, the delusion of Ron could play chess just as well as the real thing.

Which was irritating for a number of reasons. Losing chess to Ron was one thing, but losing chess to the delusion of Ron was another. He'd decided that this Ron was a copy. A copy who had far more personality than a painting, but wasn't all there. Harry noticed it in the way the persona stood waiting so patiently, the way Ron never could, like he was lost in time. Like the only moments he lived, existed, was when he appeared in front of Harry. It was in the way he refused to speak much, the way he refused to explain things, like he was fighting divulging information even now when faced with Harry himself rather than Death Eaters.

"Where is he?" Harry demanded one day. "Please, if they have him somewhere, tell me."

"You should move on," The persona told him. "Harry, this isn't healthy. This obsession you have with finding someone you haven't even seen for the better part of a year. Please, Harry, you need to see a mind healer. A real one. Not me. I'll be here when you feel overwhelmed, but I would feel better if you sought someone out who was real. Flesh and blond and trained for this kind of stuff."

 _That_ , more than anything else, was what convinced him. The concern all over Ron's features, the earnest need to protect Harry, even from himself, it convinced Harry that whatever this thing was, whatever the persona might be, it had Ron's core. It wouldn't hurt him.

"I can help you though," Harry had replied, trying to will it to do what he wanted, to give him its secrets. The persona had edged away from him. Seeing this, Harry added: "I refuse to destroy whatever you are until I have Ron back."

"And what if I'm dead? What if you never get answers? You need to let this go. You need to let me go."

"So you don't know?" Harry demanded. "You don't know what happened to Ron?"

There was no hiding the desperation.

The persona considered Harry for a long moment before sighing, his hand pulling through his hair, feet tapping the floor, just like Ron used to do. And a part of him knew this was crazy, but how could it be so accurate? How could this delusion beat him at chess if there wasn't something… more to it. Maybe Harry was really crazy and there was no hope. But what if he wasn't? He'd thought he was going crazy back in fifth year and that had been a connection to Voldemort.

Maybe this was a connection to Ron. Somehow. Some way. If there was even the tiniest chance that this was real and not Harry breaking from the war then...

"The last thing I remember is being stabbed in the chest with a dagger," Ron told him, blunt, but his voice soft and pleading, words underlying his declaration; 'I don't want to tell you how it is, but I will always tell you how it is' voice. "I'm probably dead."

Harry stopped asking questions about where Ron was after that.

* * *

Now… now the real Ron was in his kitchen, the fire fairy sitting on his lap, gazing curiously about. Ron was standing where the delusion had on so many nights in a row. But this Ron, the real Ron, Harry reminded himself, had eyes that held no emotions in them. Tension lined his shoulders. His mouth in that downward half turn that made him look as if he'd seen something horrible but was trying to put on a brave face. Hands gripping the edge of his shirt, playing with the fraying strings in uncertainty.

Ron hadn't even looked at the chess set on the kitchen's island. He didn't know that Hermione kept a box of his favorite ginger snaps in the upright pantry or that Harry had taken to putting the tea cup Ron had liked to use on the top shelf, out of the way.

"Er..." Harry started awkwardly. "Why don't we play some chess? In the living room, would probably be better…"

He didn't really want to play in the place that he played against his delusion.

Ron looked up blankly.

"Chess? Um… I'm not sure… I mean… yeah, I guess, that sounds great," Ron said shrugging hurriedly and standing there as if he were waiting for Harry to move first. He blinked, feeling a touch of suspicion in the back of his mind as he watched Ron.

He led them into the living room, carrying the chess set with him and placing all the pieces in their correct places. The chess stretched, the Queen swinging her sword experimentally before giving it a satisfied smirk. The little creature from before crawled out of Ron's jacket once he sat down, settling beside Ron and staring at Harry with wide blue eyes. It looked as if it were some type of Ape creature, but far more intelligent.

"So, what is it?" Harry asked.

"What?" Ron asked, looking up at Harry.

"The creature you're carrying around like jewelry," Harry said dryly.

"Oh! Yeah, him," Ron shrugged. "Gibson's a demiguise. A dragon ate his mum, I think, he found us while me and Leif were looking for plants. I'm black, right?"

"You're always black," Harry said carefully. "And how do you know Gibson's mum was eaten by a dragon? Demiguise can't speak."

"Oh, well, you know… that's… er… well, there was a carcass of some kind that a dragon was feasting on, didn't recognize it, but Gibson escaped from where the dragon was so…"

"What?!"

"I think he was hanging from the carcass for quite a while, waiting for the dragon to land," Ron continued.

"What were you doing close to a dragon?" Harry demanded.

"Well, er… see, I was sorta right where the dragon landed…so, yeah."

Feeling faint, he found himself unwillingly glancing at Ron's bad leg, wondering at the damage beneath his pants and… it occurred to Harry how dangerous it would to try to escape with a bum leg like that. How it must have hindered him in being able to run and react. And maybe it hadn't just been Harry's rotten luck that got them into so many terrible situations. Maybe Ron was just as cursed to attract trouble as Harry himself was. It _had_ been Ron who'd chosen Harry's compartment on the train in first year and that certainly had led to plenty of trouble for the red head, hadn't it? Out of all the compartments Ron could have stumbled across to sit in, he found the one that would change both their lives forever.

"Right," Harry said, after a moment he couldn't help but repeat himself. "Right."

"So, first move is yours," Ron reminded gently, as if he were afraid he'd broken Harry in some way.

"Right."

He glanced down at the board, moving one of his center pawns forward.

"I…" Harry looked up to see Ron frowning, Leif talking in his ear, then Ron was glancing in his direction before looking down at the board, squinting. "Erm… right, B8 to C6." Harry watched as the black knight moved, its horse rearing before hitting the board, glancing at Ron in utter confusion.

"You always physically move the pieces," Harry pointed out, carefully.

Ron looked at him blankly, before glancing down at the board again.

"Yes, true… I used to."

"That's… sort of an odd thing to change, especially if you've been in prison all this time," Harry said carefully. _'Unable to play.'_

"Well, that's the thing…" Ron tapped the side of his head. "There was this one prison I was in… well, technically, it was a muggle insane asylum. Lestrange thought that was funny, to stick me in there, I think I told you, maybe not."

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. No, no, definitely not.

"Well, muggles, they've got this… weird way of keeping patients from hurting themselves and its…" Ron shrugged again, but Harry could see that this was upsetting him. "It's called a straight jacket. It keeps your arms tight against your chest. You can't move. This was after my leg was… that it was injured and…" Ron shrugged again. The motion that Harry was starting to associate with Ron not being able to put into words what was on his mind. "I couldn't move and I was in there… it was a long time. So I was sort of just… in my head, that hole time. So I'd play chess, moving pieces around a board and sort of picturing what was happening outside, with the war and stuff. Different scenarios would be different moves, you see?"

Harry nodded, even if he didn't.

"I couldn't _move_ ," Ron reiterated. "I had to do something to keep my shit together and playing chess in my head was the best way to pass the time. I was alone for so _long_ … sometimes I wouldn't hear another person for weeks."

Lestrange. Harry had never even come into contact with the man until after the war, when he'd been captured and interrogated by Harry himself. He winced remembering that incident. The only Lestrange he'd ever fought was Bellatrix Lestrange. She was Lestrange. It was odd to hear the familiarity Ron had with the large imposing Death Eater. To Ron, Rebastan Lestrange was _the_ Lestrange. His own personal torturer.

The man had been the brother of Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix's husband. The man Ron had apparently murdered in one of his escape attempts. Harry tried not to think about it, looking down at the chess set and carefully moving one of his pieces forward to free up his rook to move. The fire fairy whispered in Ron's ear again and it was really starting to grate on Harry's nerves. _What_ was she saying to him?

He felt shut out. As if he were a kid again, trying to gleam information from Order meetings. Ron was hiding, right in front of him, and damned if Harry knew any means of ripping him out from behind those barriers.

"D7 to D5," Ron spoke slowly, hesitantly. The pawn moved two places forward. Ron was never hesitant in chess though, this was all wrong.

Harry was distracted by the arrival of someone.

But it wasn't Hermione.

"This is a bad idea," Ron announced.

Across the table from Harry, Ron sat with a pensive look on his face, body rigid. But Ron hadn't spoken. Harry glanced at the person sitting beside him, at the delusion, and quirked an eyebrow. The delusion looked like a bundle of nerves, the fake jumping up from the spot next to Harry and starting to pace, long legs striding along the carpeted living room, glancing angrily at his real counterpart. Ron, for his part, didn't notice Harry's imaginary version of Ron himself. Delusion Ron stopped to face Harry.

"You've forgiven him? After everything he's done?!"

"No," Harry muttered under his breath, "but I'm willing to."

"What?" The real Ron looked up from the chess set, a confused look on his face. "Willing to what?"

"Nothing," Harry answered quickly, a tad panicked. He'd never responded to his insane delusions when others were in the room and blamed it on the fact that it was _Ron_ himself here. The idea that Ron couldn't hear himself… Harry almost laughed at how crazy that sounded, how crazy this was. Harry looked down at the set, quickly moving one of his pawns forward. The delusion glanced at the chess set, shaking his head, but not saying anything, instead, he gestured to the real Ron who was listening to something the fairy was saying.

"He doesn't deserve this. He's only going to hurt you again."

Harry didn't trust himself to reply, already feeling a hell of a lot more insane with two Ron's in the room. Before he'd accepted his delusions because they helped him cope with the loss of his best friend. Now though… Harry looked over at the real Ron. His good leg brought up to his chest, his bad leg stretched out, while his hand absently rubbed at the hip above it, as if he were in pain, but hardly noticed anymore. There was a lost look on Ron's face, like he didn't know how to react to Harry's kindness, so had shut down emotionally.

Ron didn't deserve to look like that.

"C8 to E6," Ron said quietly, peeking up at Harry uncertainly.

Now that the anger and hurt had faded, Harry realized he'd waited too long to reach out. All he wanted was to make this ghost of a person go away and bring back the one underneath it all.

"You should have left him to rot," his delusion snapped.

Harry's eyes were unwillingly dragged away from his ex-best friend to the delusion pacing. There was honest loathing and tension in its body language. Was this how he felt on the inside? If the delusions weren't real, did that mean all this hate and anger directed at his best friend was inside him?

He didn't feel it.

No, all he felt was a deep hollowness carved out of his despair and loneliness. All he wanted was to have Ron back in his life. To be able to call Ron his best friend again. To have all the little things back; all the small nudges and quiet reassurances, all the one armed hugs and waking to find Ron had migrated to the floor beside Harry's bed, hand still frozen on his shoulder as Ron had fallen asleep right there, comforting him from another nightmare. So he straitened and ignored his delusion.

"Would you like some tea?" Harry asked. "Someone told me once it's the thing to do when you don't know what to do."

Ron started, hurrying to nod and stand at the same time, nearly throwing himself off the couch.

"Yes! I mean, I suppose… that would be nice."

It was a step forward, anyways.

* * *

Ron felt like he was walking down a steep set of stairs, missing every other step on his way down, only the world was flat and everyone else around him walked with grace and knowledge.

His walking stick, which normally had a string that had been magicked so that he could find it no matter where he put it, had come undone while he'd been panicking in the Ministry. And Grimmauld place, which he'd always suspected had magic in every inch of the place, was surprisingly bare. Even the painting of Sirius's mother had been successfully removed.

This was Hermione's handy work. It practically had her name carved along every wall. She must have lost her shit on the house and decided to use the full force of her knowledge and stubbornness to rid the place of the Black's touch.

It left him fumbling about the place, truly blind for once. He could see the chess set, but it was a blob to him. The individual pieces indistinguishable because of how much magic was exuding from the board and pieces. He hadn't quite realized how much magic went into creating these things, but he supposed they were meant to last a good long time…

And the kitchen had no trace of magic either. Which was odd to him. His mum's kitchen had traces on every spoon and cabinet. They must not cook at home at all. Which wasn't surprising coming from Hermione, but he really expected Harry to have jumped to the task, what with them living here alone full time.

"How is…" Ron stumbled on what to say. He knew how his family was. His mum talked about Fred and George and the shop all the time, how they'd thrown themselves into their busy to keep themselves distracted. How Ginny had graduated and taken to caring for their mum while helping Hogwarts to rebuild alongside Neville. He knew Percy had become obsessive with building the Department of Law back up from scratch, adding in legislation for equal rights across the board no matter the blood status and fighting what remained of the Wizengamot for representation for magical creatures, half breeds, and those inflicted like werewolves and vampires alongside Hermione.

Ron had kept up with their lives even if no one wanted him in them.

"What's it like to be an Auror?" Ron asked instead.

He heard the sound of the kettle beginning to whistle. Harry shifted, the rustling of his clothes loud in the silence. Despite its age, Grimmauld didn't creak at all, it remained as new and unaffected as the day it had been created. Nothing like Ben's shop. Every squeak and groan sounding like a hoard of Death Eaters breaking in.

"Tonks is in charge, well, you know that…" Harry started. "Its weird. Everybody's at least five years older than me yet people ask _me_ questions."

"Well, you have been in charge of a mini rebellion group since you were fifteen," Ron teased, thinking of the DA. "You trained your own army."

"The DA is actually a subdivision of the Aurors for trainee recruits now," Harry told him. "Though is stands for Defense Academy rather than Dumbledore's Army. Angelina Johnson, Dennis Creevy, and Susan Bones are all apart of it. Ginny was thinking of joining, but she wants to make sure that new students can get into Hogwarts first. It took quite a lot of heavy damage."

"Nev's helping too, right?" Ron asked.

"He's the ringleader," Harry said with a laugh. "Says the Hufflepuffs have reign of the school now because they practically built it from scratch and have even started expanding in places. Creating more secret nooks and crannies. There's even talk about creating a fifth house."

"No kidding?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, well, Nev was talking to the sorting hat one day and the hat was complaining that there were too many students who were didn't fit right in any of the houses. Artist types like Luna who were intelligent, sure, but who needed a different type of atmosphere than Ravenclaw or Ernest Macmillan who was certainly loyal and hardworking, but who would have fit better in a place that catered to his need to write, or Colin who was obsessed with photography. Nev says the sorting hat ranted at him for hours about it and so he talked to the teachers and soon enough people really started diving into it."

"It makes sense," Ron said slowly, thinking it over. "If Luna had been placed in a house like that, she probably wouldn't have been treated so…"

"Like an outcast?" Harry finished.

"Yeah."

' _Someone is coming,'_ Leif whispered in his ear. Ron heard the sound of the floo and the vicious mutterings of a painfully familiar voice coming from the fireplace. He could hear her patting herself down, probably having only smudged ash more across her clothes in her attempts to get rid of it. A cleaning spell soon followed and a satisfied hum echoed.

Then she was there. Her aura a tightly knit form of magic. Hermione was equal measures control and meticulous care, dedication and love. Hermione was like a textbook. Facts and figures, but also a true, genuine demonstration of obsession for a subject woven within the words. Ron almost smiled, if his mouth didn't feel so tight with tension.

"Hi," Ron breathed.

Something hit the floor, cracking, papers creased and rustled. It was clear she hadn't been paying attention to Harry's patronus because she had not been expecting Ron to be there. He saw her cast a non-verbal spell. It came out purple, reaching forward like hands and he recognized it as 'Accio.'

"I can go," he offered quietly. Remembering the last time they had spoken in the bar.

"Happy belated Birthday," Hermione said briskly. Ron blinked in confusion. Not sure at the intentions behind it.

"What?"

"Your birthday was five days ago," Hermione said slowly. "Happy belated Birthday. You're twenty now… We should… I should have written or something… I did write. I just didn't send it. I made an appointment though… Obviously we missed it, so I made another. It's for the 20th of this month. In two weeks. If you'd like to go…"

"I'm twenty…" Ron said slowly, not even having noted it, before realizing he hadn't answered and that Hermione was breathing too quickly. "Yes, I would love to, if you'd have me," he stuttered out.

"Good."

He heard more papers rustle, saw the figure standing in front of him bent over for a moment before something was held out to him. Ron reached forward until his fingers were touching a hard piece of paper, like a card or something. He took it from Hermione, his thumb running along the raised letters.

"It's at a restaurant in downtown London called the Lounge and Patisserie, the second floor, of course, the first floor is for muggles. It's a deserts place, I thought you might fancy it. The appointments for 2:00 p.m so please show up early," Hermione rambled, keeping her voice finely controlled.

Ron was too shocked to speak.

"It's all on the card, obviously, so you won't forget. And the date I picked out because it matches how old you're turning," Hermione continued in clipped tones. "The reservations are for three people and it takes a while to get the reservation so don't disappoint us."

Hermione turned sharply and walked out of the kitchen. Ron watched the figure leave in stunned silence, holding onto the card as if it were the actual reincarnation of his beating heart.

"Um…" Harry spoke, equally unbalanced by the nature that was Hermione. "Um, well, I've heard her making reservations at all sorts of places recently, I just hadn't really thought about it. She never goes to them."

"And you didn't think to ask? That can't be healthy."

"We don't really… We handle things differently."

"But not alone, right?" Ron asked, a quiet pleading in his voice.

"She likes to go and sit at bookshops and cafes and stuff… I go with her, sometimes. I'm always here when she…"

"At least she gets out," Ron said slowly. Feeling a sense of relief. "The Aurors have mock quidditch games, right? Tonks told me 'bout them years ago. You play, right?"

"Not really."

Ron swallowed.

"Why not? You should. It would help blow off steam and you love quidditch. I know it not the same as real games, but…"

"Stop. You're not exactly a budding example of social charms right now either," Harry growled and Ron realized he'd crossed a line he shouldn't, stepped on a nerve he hadn't realized was one.

Ron wasn't the same, but neither was Harry. His best mate had changed just as much as he himself had and that meant he'd developed a whole new layer of self-defenses that he wasn't aware of. He nudged Gibson off his lap and onto the stool his thigh was touching.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Ron said, back tracking, "I was just saying that you always feel better when you play quidditch and its clear you're not…"

"That I'm not holding it together?" Harry snapped.

' _Guess I know what the papers are saying lately,'_ Ron thought dryly.

"…that you're a bundle of nerves," Ron said instead. "You're tense and looking for a fight. You need a release."

"I'm not the one who can't handle being in a crowd," Harry snapped.

And wow was this getting heated far more quickly than Ron remembered Harry ever doing. The moment the conversation had turned from Ron onto Harry, he'd become snapping and ready to defend himself which meant that something was really fucking wrong.

' _He's scaring baby,'_ Leif said unhappily. Ron could see her blue flames bursting and prickling. Ron nodded, telling her to take Gibson out of the room and that he'd come and grab them once Harry had calmed down. He'd learned to speak quietly so as not to draw attention to Leif or himself while walking about town.

" _What_ are you two saying to each other?" Harry demanded in a strangled voice. "Keeping more secrets from us? From me? What the hell is that thing telling you?"

Leif scowled, gesturing angrily at Harry and Ron had the sense that something else was happening here that he didn't understand.

"I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with you, Harry," Ron said carefully, trying to figure out where the pent up anger was originating from. He made a motion with his hands for Leif to go, helping Gibson to the floor and listening to the fire fairy as talked softly to the small, cowering figure of the demiguise.

"I'm saying that there's something wrong with you though," Harry said boldly, but his voice was off. Ron tilted his head, not hearing much anger there. Harry was trying to goad him, purposefully trying to anger Ron. It wasn't like him at all.

"Yeah, there's a lot wrong with me," he agreed easily. Anyone could see that. There was no point in denying it. But rather than placate Harry, there was a sound of annoyance.

"No one changes this much," Harry said stiffly.

' _Oh. OH!'_

Ron got it now.

"Are you really even Ron Weasley?" Harry demanded, the figure across the table stood up. "Ron doesn't take being insulted well. He never has. You don't even look like you noticed anything I've said. This isn't…."

"You know its me," Ron said tiredly.

"Then argue back!" Harry snapped. "Defend yourself! Get angry! You haven't… you didn't say a word in defense of yourself in front of the Ministry, you didn't get angry when they spoke so ill of you in that conference room, you haven't… you just stood there. This is more than just being broken…"

Ron flinched as Harry marched forward, shoving Ron out of the stool and against the wall, pulling his wand out and sticking it in his face, until the tip touched under his chin.

" _You haven't raised your voice once since I've gotten here. You're mad but… your so subdued. Your passion is just… gone. You move about quietly. You state the facts but there's so little emotion behind it. The strategy is there, you're making plans like you always do, thinking five steps ahead, but the rashness is gone, the impulsiveness. I bet you haven't even left this building since you settled in. Your fighting spirit is gone. The wildness about you, the passion, the savage resilience that made you kin to us in so many ways… that is what's been taken from you."_

Of course Harry would notice what Ron lacked even if he couldn't put a name to it.

"Wipe the blank look off your face, Ron, defend yourself!" Harry shouted, shoving Ron against the wall. "Do something! Fight!"

"I'm not going to fight you, Harry," Ron said softly. He didn't want to fight Harry. He wasn't angry at all. I wasn't upset about the things Harry had said. He was just glad that Harry was communicating with him in the first place. "You're right. I am a coward. I am afraid to go outside when there's a lot of people. I get overwhelmed when its too loud. There's nothing that you've said that's wro…"

A fist connected with the left side of his face.

Ron hit the floor and found Harry on top of him. Straddling him and breathing hard, pulling up on the front of Ron's shirt until he had the cloth fisted in his hands. Until Ron was nose to nose with Harry.

"WHO. ARE. YOU?!"

He felt Harry let go, still holding on with one hand, pull back the other arm in preparation for another strike. He couldn't see Harry's face, his best friend looking like nothing more than the shadowy figure above him. He didn't want to fight Harry though. He didn't care to defend himself. There was no need to fight here, after all, Harry wasn't an enemy and wouldn't go too far.

Harry needed this. Ron deserved this.

A part of him recognized that this logical, sad reaction wasn't really him. We'll it was, but it was only a part of him. It was only a part of Ron's reaction. There should be more to it. He recognized that Harry was right, probably more than Harry himself realized. Who was Ronald Weasley now?

' _We will fight for you, Spitfire, even if you can't see how much its needed.'_

Was he Spitfire? Or was he something else entirely?

Harry's fist came down.


	21. Chapter 17: Fight Back

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 17: Fight Back

"Fight back!" Harry bellowed. He glared at this broken thing in front of him. At the purple marks already forming along the entire left side of Ron's face. At his arms held up half way, but refusing to come up any further as Harry struck again and again.

"Fight back! Get angry! Argue!" Harry screamed.

Ron stumbled back as Harry rammed his fist into Ron's stomach. The breath let out of Ron, but the hands in front of him didn't push at Harry. Ron's cheeks didn't scrunch up in anger. His eyes didn't light up with fire or passion or anything remotely resembling his best friend. Instead, Ron's hands came up to land gently on Harry's shoulder as if to steady himself and his eyes reflected nothing back. Ron's shoulders were loose and his body sagged against the wall in anticipation.

Waiting for Harry to hit him again.

Harry screamed and banged his fist against Ron's chest as if it were a door that needed to be opened. He shouted and yelled, throwing accusations and demands at the red head, but Ron said nothing back. Expectation of _more_ sat in every part of his body language with such weary acceptance that it made Harry physically sick.

"Where is he?!" Harry snapped. There was blood dripping down from the corner of Ron's eye, mixing with what was left of the severely split lip, all dripping down to paint both of their shirts red. All the air went out of him, leaving only the barest wisp of words to speak. "Where is my friend?"

Slowly, all six-foot-five of Ron began to slide down the length of the wall, his bad leg not able to hold him up any longer, dragging Harry down with him. They sat, inches from one another, breathing ragged, half breaths.

"Why won't you look me in the eye anymore? Why won't you fight back?" Harry spat.

Fingers traced his cheek. Startled, Harry fell back, sitting on his arse in surprise to see Ron had reached up and had cupped his face. The fingers were calloused and warm, long digits covering the entire length of his cheek.

"What do I possibly have to be angry about?" Ron croaked. "You can spit on me or kick me or kill me and I'd still just be happy that you let me be near you. I can't…"

Ron's right hand moved up to his chest, clenching the place over his heart.

"It hurts so much… I just want to die, and the only thing that makes it feel better is having you and Hermione with me."

Ron was crying now. He was choking on the sob in his throat and the hand on Harry's cheek trembled. Harry grabbed at it, realizing as Ron's hand slid from his face to his own that there were tears falling from Harry's own eyes.

"How can I be angry when I don't even deserve to live?" Ron sobbed. "I don't deserve to be here. I don't deserve…"

Harry dragged Ron to him. He threw his arms around Ron and found that no matter how far he reached it wasn't enough. Ron was in his arms and the red head had his face buried in his chest. Heart wrenching sobs Ron tried to smother into Harry's Auror jacket. Ron curled into himself against him, long limbs folding into a ball.

"I'm sorry," Ron wailed. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry."

It was Ron's voice. Not the forced casualness. Not the voice of stone. Not the repentant shadow. Not the familiar stranger. Not the helpful persona. Not the forced distance. Not anything that Ron had tried so hard to throw up between them. The wall Ron had been slamming bricks upon since he reappeared was gone and it was Ron in his arms right now.

"I know," Harry told him, pulling him still closer, trying to keep Ron right where he was. Terrified out of his mind that Ron would disappear again. "I know and I don't care. Just don't go. Don't go anywhere. Don't hide. Don't leave me."

Harry rocked back and forth, feeling and seeing Ron trying to breathe. Hyperventilating and sobbing as he clutched at Harry's chest. And Harry, throat thick and words like rocks, tried to garble together his thoughts enough to help, but could do little more than stumble upon the random word here or there.

"…take."

"In… it's okay."

"…here. Count your breaths."

When Ron's breathing finally evened out, it was because he'd lost consciousness. There, hands only partially unclenched from Harry's chest, face soaked and sweat covered. Harry could only sit there, lost and shaking, overwhelmed by it all.

"It's okay," Harry repeated, but there was no one awake to hear him. He found himself clutching Ron and watching the light outside slowly grow fainter and colder. He wasn't sure how long it was before he finally moved, gently rousing Ron.

The moment Ron's eyes fluttered open, his body stiffened and he sat up, his back turned away from Harry. Harry could only stare helplessly onward. Ron wiped at his face, almost turning toward him, but stilling instead.

"I'm sorry," Ron mumbled again, his head turned and he sniffled into the crook of his neck, and Harry was left with the odd impression that he as watching Ron 'pull himself together.'

"Don't be," Harry told him. "I'm glad you're back."

He knew Ron knew what he meant. Ron nodded, but didn't turn. Instead his hands fumbled around the wood floor, not paying attention to where they wandered. Ron finally looked around, but didn't seem to be able to find what he was looking for. He glanced in Harry's direction, his fingers stilling along the floor.

"Do you see my staff?" Ron asked.

Harry glanced around before finding it right next to him. Oak wood large and obvious, stretching out between them and practically touching Ron's shoes. Harry frowned, picking it up and handing it to Ron.

Ron didn't take it though.

He seemed to be waiting for something. Harry moved, his joints creaking from being forced into their positions for so long. Ron followed his movements, watching him as Harry moved. Harry jerked the staff in his arm again, gesturing for Ron to take it. Ron stared blankly at him though and made no move to take the walking stick from him.

"You asked for it, didn't you?" Harry jerked the staff a third time.

Ron started.

"Right, yeah," Ron hesitantly held out his hand for the stick, his hand almost touching his own, but not quite.

"Just take it, Ron," Harry snapped.

"Sorry," Ron mumbled, reaching forward and grabbing the staff, his fingers bumping into it before grasping the wood with certainty. Harry frowned, standing up and watching Ron watching him stand up. Ron stood slowly, leaning heavily against the staff and his left leg to drag his right leg off the ground.

There was a horrible thought trying to stretch its way across his brain. Harry tapped down on it, heading into the kitchen. He shuffled around, pulling things out of the cupboards and trying not to stare at Ron as he limped into the room _carefully._ Not in the 'injured' sort of way, but in the hesitant sort of way.

Harry summoned a bag of ice, then, on a whim, tossed it up and down, watching Ron. He looked toward Harry, exactly where he stood, his head tilted in that odd way… that odd way Harry was starting to realize was listening. He put the bag on the table as carefully as possible. Ron's eyes didn't even look at the bag. Harry stretched out his arm and moved it through the air as silently as he could. Ron's eyes followed his arm, his eyebrows rising as if to ask 'what are you doing?'

Ron could see movement.

Ron couldn't see much else.

"Ron…?"

Ron looked up at him and Harry recognized the blank emotionless look in his eyes for what it was. Harry grabbed the bag of ice, staggering over, trying to balance himself even as his world skewed.

"What? What is it?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head, putting the ice gently to Ron's face and telling him to hold it there. Ron did so and Harry worked at bringing the swelling down, easing the bruises until they were gone completely. Healing magic wasn't Harry's forte. If there'd been a broken bone there was nothing he could have done. But bruises were easy enough.

"Thanks," Ron murmured.

' _What happened?'_

' _How have you been…'_

' _All this time…?'_

The words stuck in Harry's throat. He sat down on the kitchen floor, close enough to Ron that their shoulders touched. It was dark out and Harry realized why it was that Ron traveled at night. Because it didn't matter to him and there were less people around. It made a sad sort of sense.

Ron fiddled with the stick, keeping the ice pack against his face even though Harry had healed the worst of the bruising. Ron didn't seem to notice the cold at all. His body was tense against Harry's shoulder and he realized that Ron must be waiting for something to happen. Another accusation or more anger, but Harry was fresh out. Too stunned and drained to even fully process the idea that Ron couldn't see him.

The delusion stood at the entrance to the kitchen, looking decidedly unhappy by how close Harry was to Ron. The redhead's blue eyes were cold enough to slice him to ribbons. Fury and hatred practically radiating off of him towards Ron.

Harry looked away, keeping his eyes on the real thing.

"So, you were captured and taken to Nox Wrack?" Harry asked eventually, when the silence was too long and he'd rather ask the awkward question than let it sit any longer.

"After I escaped from Numberland, yeah. There were a lot of Death Eaters and Snatchers that couldn't care less about blood status or what not, just about money and advantage."

"Do you know when that was?" Harry asked.

Ron smiled then, a little unhinged, and the laugh that followed set Harry on edge.

"It was cold and the days were short, so winter," Ron shrugged carelessly. "Maybe a month and a half after I left you and got instantly captured."

Ron laughed again. That same eerie sound that wasn't really a laugh at all. He let the ice bag dropped and adjusted himself, hand going to his lame leg and forcing the knee downward when it refused to bend right. Harry winced.

"I'm sure you're aware by now that Numberland was a city the prison was named after. It was the perfect place for the Death Eaters to set up its two central prisons-Numberland and Dersewel, because Nox Wrack had the entire area warded heavily years prior to keep its black market safe from both muggle and magical presence. Didn't know that when I escaped though, did I?"

Ron made a derogatory comment under his breath before continuing.

"Escaped one just to run into the fucking other… almost got Fred and George caught too."

"You saw Fred and George there?" Harry demanded. They had never mentioned anything like that before. Not when they'd all been trying to put the pieces together to find Ron. Not when news circulated making Ron out to be a Death Eater. Not when the war had ended and it was believed Ron was a traitor. Not once had they mentioned a meeting in Numberland.

Ron smiled self-deprecatingly.

"Well…"

* * *

Hope.

Ron knew the last time he'd allowed himself such a disease ridden idea. Maybe not the date or the time, but he could tell you from beginning to end when it had sparked and when it had died miserably, never to be seen again.

His first escape.

He taps down on the flutter inside his heart as he lays the dead body of his prison guard onto the floor. He refuses to think of the possibility of escape as he forces his emaciated hips through the rungs of rusted bars, concentrating instead on breathing through the thick mud piled up against the wall, on the small stones digging into his flesh as he drag his fingernails back and forth, making just enough room for him to get out. Ron crawls and ducks, moving slow even while he wants to leap up and run for all he's worth.

The guards change shifts, idle talk taking their eyes from the job to each other, giving Ron the chance to slip out. He doesn't run. He listens. He crouches. He waits. Outside of the Numberland Prison, away from the Death Eaters and Snatchers, he still refuses to let himself think he's escaped. He won't let hope kill him like so many others.

Ron stumbles and shudders his way through miles of forest, slipping into a town nearby just long enough to figure where he is and what his next move should be. He needs a wand, for one, a safe place to go, and something to eat before the acid in his stomach gets too much further into his stomach lining. Eating away at him from the inside out.

Order Safe Houses.

Moody set up three; London, Dublin, and Blackpool, but none of those were anywhere _near_ him. Likewise, Bill's safe house was in _Cornwall,_ far passed London on the coast. Tonk's mother's home was in Cambridge. Lee Jorden had small little holes all over the place, but the only ones Ron knew about were in Manchester and…

Ron stopped.

Numberland. It had to be close to here if the prison was named after the city. The small backwaters wizarding town that Lee's grandmother used to live in before she died. She'd left the house to Lee so that he would have a stable place to start out after he graduated, but Lee had chosen to stay near Diagone Alley since he was helping the twins launching their shop. He'd talked about fixing it up at some point, but hadn't gotten to it yet. Just a few things, enough to make it into a safe house.

He could go out to one of the muggle roads, get a lift, probably. It was a few hours by train, probably the same for muggle cars, right? Numberland was just outside of Durham which was pretty damn close to Apareci too, a wizarding town where a lot of researchers lived, where Fred and George went to talk shop with their inventions. He could probably find a wand shop there. Defend himself properly.

Ron was loathe to admit he had a plan, a destination. Every time he had, the plan had been torn apart, it was better to expect them coming. Expect that the Death Eater's knew where he was and were at that very moment right behind him, already practicing their holier than thou speech.

It took two days to get out of the deep forested area because of all the magical wards and one day hitch hiking rides after convincing an old couple that he wasn't a deranged, escaped convict. Exhausted, filthy, penniless, wandless, and with who knows what sort of monstrosity on his tail… the little bundle of hope he'd been neglecting and forcing into the closet of his mind began to slip out. Like an abandoned babe, it was working its way from an inconvenience to the only thing he had in the world.

Ron spent a week in the town, laying low and traveling to Apareci. He sent out a distress signal on the Order lines for his location, hoping that Fred and George would recognize the location and make a guess that it was him. He kept to the shadows and watched out for any signs of his brothers.

And then it happened.

One block away from the safe house.

He saw them.

They had dyed their hair. One a pitch black. The other blonde. Both heads were bent over papers in a café window, gesturing to each other and the work beneath them. They were arguing about something. Fred was jabbing his finger so fiercely it was a wonder the paper didn't rip. George was shaking his head, pointing something out, his face saying 'it can't work that way Fred, it needs a little more of this way.'

His heart leaped into his chest, throbbing so hard, it even overrode the sores alight on his feet. His hands shook and all he knew to do with them was to take both of his big brothers in his arms and never let them go. To hold tight and not fall apart himself.

Ron took off at a run. He was alive with energy where moments before he'd been ready to start crawling along the dirt road. To move forward even if it meant one knee to dirt drag at a time. He bumped into a woman. His mouth opening with the intentions of saying sorry, but not quite managing it. He was staggering forward, waving wildly at the window while gesturing apologetically behind.

Somewhere among his manic elation he missed them.

Not his brothers.

No, Fred and George never glanced his way, he hadn't been that lucky. The ones he missed were ones that walked in the shadows. Ron's feet locked up on him. A large hand wrapped around his mouth and nose, cloth between his lips and their fingers. A sweet smell and then dizziness.

Ron jabbed his elbow backwards. The person grunted. A whole different kind of adrenaline kicked in as he flung himself from the hands reaching for him. He tripped, rolling with the fall and found himself staring at an odd pair. A goblin and a strangely familiar wizard pulling out his wand.

Ron forced his knees under him, jumping up so quickly that half the blisters on his heels burst as he took off, mixing pus with dirt and blood and searing pain. Something exploded to his right and it was only his own dizziness, sending him to the ground again, that saved him from having a body part removed.

The sweet smell from the cloth felt like an invasion in his lungs, as if it were clogging it, making his breath come out wheeze like. His hands felt paralyzed, refusing to lift him from the ground. The goblin above him snickered, pointing mockingly at his own neck while the other man… the Death Eater, Ron finally recognized, had a shimmering silver like ball hovering over his wand with a red mark inside. An arrow, pointing straight at Ron's from on the ground.

"Tracker," the goblin gleefully declared.

And then Nox Wrack had loomed and he found himself in a tiny space, smelling the piss of the prisoner above him as it hit the top of his cage, hearing it slid across the metal and watching as it fell off the corner, droplets dribbling into his cage. Being haggled over for money. Refused, but only because another pair of Death Eaters were coming to pick Ron up for the Lestranges. Goyle and Mulciber.

* * *

"Ron," Harry breathed, pained.

Ron shrugged, still staring at the floor as he finished.

"I was so upset that I'd been so close, but thinking about it now… I could have gotten them killed. The two trackers weren't alone. We met up with another ten or so all heading to Nox Wrack, if I'd have made it to my brothers, I don't think any of us would have walked away."

"How long were you there?"

"A few weeks, 'em not sure. Got out of the cages at one point. Spent a few days trying to find the exit. Let me tell you right now that those were the three worst days of my life. Being so close to freedom and not being able to get to it. Turns out you can't find it if you have a tracker on you. Some magical application or what not. Fucking bullshit. I was eventually captured again, of course, then them Deaths show up and…"

Ron was tapping his fingers along with pant legs. Harry recognized it as a sign of agitation. It reminded him of the missing finger on Ron's hand and a part of him wondered if he cast a disillusionment charm if it would be enough to reveal what else Ron was hiding.

But Ron wasn't really hiding anything. Was he?

If Harry showed enough patience and trust, then Ron would tell him in time. One incident at a time.

"Harry," Ron spoke so quietly that he wasn't even sure he heard him. Ron's good leg knocked against his own and Harry watched as Ron's hand reached over and gently squeezed his knee. It was such a casual move. A simple way to feel where Harry's leg was before reaching out, and he hadn't noticed at all before.

"Harry," Ron repeated.

"Yeah?"

"Can you… I mean," Ron's breath hitched. "You were there… when my dad died. Can you…"

"Yeah."

Ron's body sagged against the wall and Harry felt his shoulder lean against his. It would have been more comfortable if they'd moved to the living room, but it seemed like to much effort in that moment. And it would break the peace that had settled between them. Unsteady, but throbbing in intensity.

"It was chaos," Harry started, grabbing Ron's hand and simply holding it in his. "There were curses flying everywhere and we were losing. It was a lot of Voldemort's more experienced Death Eaters. The numbers we were given were completely unreliable. Instead of fifteen there were at least fifty of them. All armed and ready. Your dad was great, he was the only one who thought to cast a shield around our group before they were on us… he saved so many people, Ron, so many…"

Ron choked.

Harry gripped Ron's hand harder. Ron returned the gesture, their fingers entwining.

"He never let that barrier drop… some of us left the barrier to gives the others a better chance to survive. I lost sight of him for a time…"

"Cause you were one of the idiots who left the barrier," Ron grinned through his tears.

"Yeah, I was one of those idiots. Neville too… but the nineteen under that barrier… they all got out alive, including Ginny and..."

"She wouldn't leave dad," Ron interrupted.

"Luna knocked her out," Harry admitted. "Hit Gin with her own bat boogey and lifted her in her arms like she weighed nothing before disapparating. Gin still hasn't forgiven her, but Arthur told Dean said to tell Luna he would forever be grateful for it."

"That's good," Ron said thickly, swallowing and speaking more clearly, he added. "Sounds just like dad. I wish I was there."

' _You were.'_ Harry almost said. _'You were watching my back the whole time.'_

Hearing voices in your head wasn't good though. Not even in the wizarding world.

"Tell me more?" Ron begged.

Harry did.


	22. Chapter 18: Tattoos

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

A/N: Because so many of you have been asking when Hermione will be more involved.

Character Development Arcs & Outline: 

Introduction of all themes and conflicts

Interlude I

Ron Weasley-Starting out on his own

Interlude II

Harry Potter-The Nox Wrack Mission [Current]

Interlude III

Hermione Granger- The Centaur Trip [Coming Next]

Interlude IV

The Weasley Family- Set during the Death Eater Trials & The Werewolf Initiative

Final Interlude

The Final Part: Cannot Say without giving away spoilers, but all the pieces tie together.

Hope this answers more questions than it brings up

* * *

Chapter 18: Tattoos

Ron slipped out of Grimmauld place while Harry and Hermione were sleeping. He'd promised Tonks and Keegan a means of getting in and he only had about eight hours to do so. Luckily Ron where he needed to go, Leif snuggled in his front pocket.

Manchester had few wizards. It was considered muggle territory, and no one had ever really settled out there. It was too far away from the more magically inclined lands. Which is why Ron was taking the muggle train. He'd never seen Manchester and so didn't have the option of apparating to the place. No ability to picture a place in your mind meant a guaranteed splinching and Ron had suffered more than his fair share in one life time, thank you very much.

Despite it being one in the morning when he arrived, the door opened instantly. A stocky shadow opened the door, an aura of humor and hard lines twisting about in wild delight. Ron grinned, knowing who it was before they ever opened their mouths.

"Well aren't you a handsome fella… where'd you put the ugly one?" Jane Putman demanded, dragging him into a bear hug.

"Locked up in a glamor like the boggart it is," Ron laughed. "Odin in?"

"Passed out like a worn out pup on my bed, drooling all over my favorite pillow."

"Wake able?" Ron asked.

The woman made a sound in her throat that could have been either agreement or denial.

"Only got back a few hours ago, so who knows what he'd been up to," Jane muttered. She dragged him into the house, arm locked around his own, acting as a half-hazard like guide for him up the stairs.

They opened the door and Ron blinked at a giant shield around one corner of the room, surrounding a familiar shadow figure. The magic flowed in layers, snatching something invisible in the air. Ron's staff hit the floor and Ron watched in fascination as a ripple spread across the barrier before that invisible object was once more snatched up.

"Is this a sound blocker?" Ron asked.

"Is what a sound blocker?"

"Oh, right, I meant did he cast a sound barrier around himself to sleep?"

"HEY! DUMBASS! DID YOU CAST A SOUND BARRIER!"

Ron flinched, glaring at the beta, but Odin didn't stir one bit.

"Suppose he must have, eh?" Ron could hear the smirk in her voice. He felt Jane move away from him, no doubt going to shake Odin awake, but Ron grabbed her arm, indicating for her to hold on. She shrugged and stood back, a sly grin forming on her face.

"You're bad for his heart," Ron grinned.

"You're bad for my sexual tension," she replied, voice sly, he felt her press her boobs against his back.

"Stop that," Ron snickered.

"Said no man ever."

But she removed herself, sighing in annoyance. Ron turned back to the magical barrier, pulling out his wand and eyeing the way the spell worked, almost like a dream catcher. The lines of magic weaving across one another like string. He'd always thought that spells used to block magic worked like shields, but this spell work was _absorbing_ the sounds rather than bouncing them back. That meant that rather than crack like a shield, it needed to collapse in on itself in order to break.

Ron tugged at the magic with his wand, but it only pulled back like a fishing net. Unlike a defensive barrier, Ron didn't need to take down the whole thing. He only needed one small opening for sound to get through. He slowly moved the tip of his wand in circle, allowing it to form a burning hot magic, before focusing in on one of the small openings. The single spot shuddered and contorted, but held.

He changed tactics. Moving his wand rapidly from side to side, the tip of his wand cooling as he formed cutting magic instead. He jabbed at the net like magic and watched in satisfaction as it instantly snapped the line. Ron grinned in satisfaction.

"Your ability at non-verbal magic is ridiculous," He heard Jane mutter.

Ron hurriedly put a finger to his lips. Shushing her. He cleared his throat as quietly as possible and said in his best impersonation of Miss. Hufflepuff:

"Lying about at _this_ hour!"

Odin Sage popped up like a deranged daisy, arm coming out in front of him holding a none existent wand.

"I weren't doin' no such thing!" He cried out.

Ron and Jane roared with laughter. He heard the werewolf leap from the bed, feet hitting the floor, the soft thud of pillows slipping onto wood. The shadow figure stalked over to them and Ron straightened his face and stood straight, fighting a grin.

"You come here in the middle of the night and raise me from the dead after a long hard day's work, you better have a good excuse."

"I need a tattoo."

"That's what I'm talking about!" Jane roared in approval, clapping him hard on the back.

"I need a Nox Merchant Tattoo."

"What?" Odin hissed.

"Tonks asked me to get a team of Aurors in."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Jane turned mulish. "How about a nice boggart on your arse or a fire fairy on your neck for Leif to glare at?"

"No."

'No!'

" 'Ello Leif, didn't see you inside that pocket," Jane teased.

"Giving you a tattoo would compromise our own operations," Odin ignored his Beta's muttering. "Unless you can promise me it will be a quiet operation…"

"In and out, just information gathering," Ron promised. "They're looking for someone specific. Besides, I can get the scope on the higher levels while I'm there. Get the Quaffle and the Snitch, sort of speak."

"Doesn't really seem as if you can do much sightseeing nowadays," Odin pointed out. The Shadow figure did s _omething_ directly in front of him, Ron guessed to point out his less than stellar sight.

"More important than seeing the merchants and trade, I'll be able to see the _magic_ ," Ron told them. "I've been experimenting with different spells and the different wards in Parse Terrae for the last few months. I can see what sort of barriers and wards they have about the place and try to find a means of breaking them. Bit useful, for what your trying to do."

Odin grumbled, and Ron knew he'd won his argument.

"I'll do this for you, but only if you let me give you a _real_ tattoo." Odin's voice had turned savage at the end, Ron groaned as he realized he wasn't getting out of it.

"Only if we take care of business first," he unwillingly promised.

"Alright."

The tattoo on his left wrist stating he was a black-market dealer was just another scar on his body. He grimaced, looking at it, the Lestrange's crest on his skin an odd itch he wanted to tear at. The incantation was inside the ink, making the ghastly visage fully visible to him.

"We killed six Deaths to get our hands on the incantation for that," Odin growled, stepping away. "I don't need to tell you to use caution and to not waste it."

It was wrapped quickly. A salve dabbed on and the bandage tightened. Odin had added an aging spell while he worked so he knew that tattoo would look as if it had been on there for years within a few hours.

"Have you thought about what you want?" Odin asked quietly. He could hear the man touching up the tattoo applications.

Ron leaned back against the living room's couch. There was very little magic in the household. Not like average wizarding families, anyways. Just a touch here and there. He thought back to another time. Another place. Of a light.

Ever since Ron had his sight ripped from him by Voldemort, he'd lived in a world of darkness. Months into his dark imprisonment, when he and Remus had been taken to Bristol for execution, there was a moment… the dark lord's voice taunting him, the feel of Bellatrix Lestrange's grip on his arm and Rabastan Lestrange at his back, when he saw a glimpse of light.

Then he was tumbling forward. His feet hitting air. Plummeting downwards faster and faster, the air whipping passed him too fast to take in a breath. Hitting the water below had not been a soft penetration of body gliding beneath the surface, instead it was like falling off the moving staircase at Hogwarts and slamming into the marble floor. Ice swallowed him. His body stiffening ramrod straight from the cold.

He took a breath.

Water leaped into his throat. He was drowning. He was dying. He'd tried to reached forward, to swim, but his arms were tied securely behind him. His foot ached, his stub felt numb. And it wasn't so bad.

He stopped flailing. His lungs burned and it was the only awareness he had. It was too cold and too dark. He felt the tiny jerks of his body seizing, lungs failing to take in oxygen, water flooding the lungs.

And it wasn't so bad.

Not compared to everything else. He blinked into darkness, feeling the ice beginning to freeze over him, incasing him in a prison of eternal darkness and cold. Huh. There it was again. A light. Maybe _the_ light.

For a single moment, Ron looked upon the full figure before him and recognized it for what it truly was, and then that moment was over. The light hit the water and then it hit him. Suddenly Ron wasn't cold. He was hot. He was burning alive. There was fire along his skin and inside his chest and then the world exploded.

The ropes around his arms burned to ash and with a rush of power not his own, Ron found himself clawing through the quickly melting ice to the surface. One moment he was in the center of a lake coated heavily with magic and the next he was on the shore. His eyes blown wide as he took in the magic surrounding him, illuminating both the lake and the surrounding area.

Water spewed from his mouth, shaking and burning, Ron turned wildly on his knees, taking in the sight of the lake and the cliff and the trees. Their visages wild greens of life and sparking daggers of death. Ron could see! Months in the darkness and he could see! He twisted until he was on his backside, staring at everything.

It took a few long moments to realize the ugly truth. He blinked at the pitch black sky and the large chunks of scenario invisible to his eyes. He looked down at his hands, but he could not see them. Instead there was shadow with black lines and fire running along an arm like shape. He could see something, but what in Merlin's name was it?

And then he came back to himself and the situation.

"Remus!" Ron screamed.

He crawled towards the ice again. There was no trace of where Ron had entered the lake. He slid across completely frozen over water. The dagger like layer digging into his legs, as if they wanted to take him underneath.

"REMUS!"

He slammed his fists into the ice, eyes wildly searching the frozen surface for his friend, but it did not crack. There was no sound. Even his own echo was strangely silent in this place. He whirled around, looking for the light he'd seen only moments before hand.

"FAWKES! FAWKES, PLEASE, SAVE REMUS! FAWKES!"

The phoenix was no where though. Ron was alone. For whatever reason the bird had chosen to save Ron and then disappear. He had chosen Ronald Weasley over Remus Lupin. The phoenix had let Remus die beneath the lake and had abandoned Ron to live on top of it.

"Please. Please…" He whispered.

No one responded.

Ron had been left alone. Fixed in a way. Though he wasn't willing to admit it had been Fawkes who was the light. Because it meant that Fawkes had abandoned Remus in favor of him. It meant that the bird, the inspiration for the Order of the Phoenix had partially healed Ron before disappearing.

And Ron was left with a sick sort of feeling. That the bird had died, a final death, in that ice. That it had given its life force to drag Ron not just from the abyss of eternal ice, but from the madness haunting his mind at having his soul ripped in two. Ron wasn't sure how it was possible, for him to be brought back from that, or for Fawkes to die.

Even now he could feel a small burning warmth in his chest. As if the phoenix had carved itself a place behind his ribs and had settled there. Periodically burning to ash and unfurling in a twisted cycle inside of him. Warring constantly with the darkness that had tried to murder him inside the cells.

He didn't deserve such sacrifice.

"Lil' Spitfire?" Odin pushed at his knee. "You with me?"

Ron pressed his lips together before nodding slowly.

"A phoenix," Ron said finally. "A phoenix fighting against a dark circle around it."

"That's very specific."

He shrugged.

The outside should reflect the inside."

"Your light and darkness?"

"Not just mine."

A phoenix and the touch of Voldemort.

He did not say those things out loud though. Because if he spoke about his concerns and fears out loud, then it made them real. Besides, it wasn't as if an actual phoenix were inside of his chest. Just its magic. And Ron had been half mad when he'd been tossed off that clip. He doubted his ability to tell his hands from his feet by that point. The idea that Fawkes had traveled so far and done so much for him… was unlikely. The delusions of an unintentional traitor grasping onto hope.

Because Fawkes had represented goodness and if a creature of life and death saw Ron as something worth saving then maybe there was still something worth salvaging. So he let Odin work his magic along his back. Creating a permanent symbol to all the turmoil and horror swirling in his chest. And maybe… if it were all true. Then Ron wouldn't just be salvaging his soul when he destroyed his Hocrux.

Maybe he would be freeing Fawkes too.

* * *

Ron never thought he'd be the type of person that had connections, never mind someone who could haggle his way through the underbelly of the wizarding world's most notorious criminals, yet here he was. Over the last six months he'd been himself among the rowdy inhabitants of Parse Terrae. A little too blunt, a little too harsh, with a swig of wit and a dash of hopeless.

He fit right in.

A lot more magical folk had taken to Ron than he'd ever imagined. It had taken only a little wheedling before he found himself in a dark shop a few towns over and with the name of a reference outside of Ben who people trusted. Ron tapped his staff on the floor of the shop, allowing a large couple to pass him by, catching whiff of something foul. Ron watched one of them closely, their magical aura possessing a brown murkiness to it that was attacking a separate pure purple aura.

"A terminal curse," a gruff, deep voice answered.

Ron blinked at the grey like magical aura, a personality like a summer storm in the middle of a dry heat, both relieving and suffocating in its humidity. He stood, holding out his hand in her general direction. Rough, calloused fingers took it.

"Brandy?" Ron clarified.

"This would be a tad awkward if I wasn't."

The grey shadow turned and Ron caught whiff of overly powerful perfume unsuccessfully masking body odor. Heat beat at the shops inside's in waves and Ron had to marvel at how the woman could stand it, or what she sold, exactly, that caused it. He glanced around but found most of the shop hidden from his sight. Not much magic being employed then.

"What do ya need?" Brandy called. Her voice suggested she took to the pipe more often than not and hadn't bothered with the periodic healer appointments that were required of such a habit. Or, more likely, was on too many wanted posters to be able to go to a healer.

"Messis," Ron answered, following as quickly as he could behind her. Metal slid into metal ahead of him. Ron tilted his head to try to gauge the sound better. Something large lifted from below, he could hear it moving from floor to floor. An elevator? A shaft?

It slid into place in front of them and as it did so, Ron saw the outline of a door appear. Powered by magic then. He marched in after her and was thrown off when everything around him began to drop.

An elevator.

He grabbed for the railings, but found there were none, and cursed as he braced against the corners. Brandy laughed at him. Ron sent her a glare.

"And what will you do that will be worth my wild?"

"You told your sister that you're in desperate need of Hydroponic leaves," Ron said casually. He pulled out a large jar, full to the brim with floating, magical coated leaves. He heard Brandy's breath hitch the smallest bit. Felt her fingers apply pressure to the glass he was holding out.

"Bloody brilliant. How'd you get ahold of these? There only grown in Nepal."

Ron grinned.

"If I gave you my sources then they'd soon become yours, wouldn't they?"

She huffed, but made a noise in her throat that was agreement.

"How much do you need?"

"One batch and the jars yours."

"Deal."

* * *

Today was the day.

Infiltrating Nox Wrack had been the talk of the department for weeks. This break in the case would help take down not just Elone, but a huge chunk of the black-market network. Today was information gathering for the team of four. About stealth rather than force.

It wasn't long before Harry noticed that Keegan had brought a fifth set of clothing, one which he was giving to Ron, and Ron was getting _into_ them. His practically blind best friend was getting into a disguise that would allow them to sneak into one of the most notoriously dangerous black markets Great Britain had to offer.

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry hissed.

Ron adjusted his shirt, strapping on the quick draw wand holster to his arm before pulling the sleeve down. Ron glanced in his general direction, his eyes not quite focusing on his form before looking away.

Ron was _very good_ at hiding how badly damaged his vision was. Even now that Harry knew, it was difficult to keep in mind, he had to actively remind himself that Ron couldn't see him. The more he paid attention to this fact, the more confused he became.

"This is work for _Aurors_ ," Harry pressed, emphasizing his last word. "In case you've forgotten, you're a civilian."

"And how exactly do you think a bunch of _Aurors_ ," Ron mocked without pause, are going to get into the black market?" Ron asked, he gestured at the lot of them, as if he could see them. "By your dashing good looks and charm?"

"Keegan!" Harry snapped, gesturing to Ron. "What is this?"

"Tonks garnered Ron a badge of sorts: civilian liaison to the Auror Department. As long as one of us is with him for the duration of the mission, he is able to come on missions with us," Keegan told him.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Quite within it, thanks, Potter. Ronald Weasley has a set of skills and contacts geared towards infiltration and espionage missions. He may not be trained in the law, but he is in the underworld and that's exactly what we need right now."

"Infiltration and espionage? Have you met him?!" Harry growled angrily. "He's using a walking stick for Merlin's sake!"

"Staff," Ron muttered mulishly.

"He has a horrible limp! He can't run if its needed. You're dragging him into danger he can't escape!"

"I've escaped worse with less," Ron defended himself.

"What is he going to do if the mission goes south? Rely on the fairy?"

"Oi! Stop talking about me as if I'm not here, you four-eyed midget!"

"He's going," Keegan said firmly. "The only question is, are you?"

Harry glared mutinously about him. Ferris and Aiden were watching the three of them as if it were a quidditch game. It was probably more words from Harry than they'd heard in the last six months.

Ron tapped his glamour charm. His features contorting into a seemingly different person. Long, black hair, and a nose much smaller on his face. A scar appeared over his right eye, as if someone had slashed straight through it. All in all. It was a few changes but just enough to make Ron look completely different.

"Why aren't you having Polyjuice like the rest of us?" Harry questioned.

Ron held up his wrist where a bandage lay.

"I pulled some strings with a feral beast who sleeps naked, you should thank you. Bare witnessing such an atrocity has scarred me for life."

"You got the merchant mark then?" Aiden called, looking impressed.

"And it never comes off. I'll have to cover it with a tattoo or something," Ron sighed, dragging his sleeves down to cover the bandages.

' _I'm sure Hermione would love that,'_ Harry thought. Hermione had hung on to his every word these last few days, listening as he spoke of Ron. He'd stroked her hair as they sat on the couch, her head against his shoulder, Kreacher popping in and out, adding far too many longs to the fire and magically reheating them when the wood threatened to suffocate the flames. When Harry had mentioned that they wouldn't be there all night, the response was short and clipped.

" _But I will, Mr. Potter, and Kreacher does not like cold floors on bare feet."_

He really couldn't argue with that. He'd considered offering the house elf shoes but was pretty sure the ancient creature would die of a fear induced heart attack. He already dealt with the angry kitchen messes left behind after Hermione insisted on offering Kreature wages.

Hermione would break any day now. She'd already begun collecting every clip that so much as mentioned Ron's name and had it compiling on the living room wall. Good. Bad. Or otherwise. Even Harry's aware ceremonies didn't make it on that wall. She seemed to be holding out for Ron's birthday, but Harry suspected the wait was driving her mental.

"Alright," Keegan called, bringing the attention back to himself. "This is a strong batch of Polyjuice potions. We'll have three hours, tops, to gather information on the security and length of Nox Wrack. This is a stealth mission into a black market so remember, no matter what you see, illegal or horrible, leave it be. A premature, attack on Nox Wrack is not only reckless and suicidal, it will also lose us the opportunity to do any good. Those who run black markets have back up plans upon black up plans for relocation and dismantling of current operations. If we blow our covers, Nox Wrack will no longer exist by this time tomorrow."

"Right!"

"Yes, sir."

"Obviously."

Keegan nodded, looking each of his Aurors in the eye.

"Down the hatch then."

Harry knocked back his potion, seeing Ron removing the bandage out of the corner of his eye, glaring down at the tattoo there. Harry didn't have much time to ponder the sight though because his body was contorting. Lengthening and broadening until he was someone much bigger. Harry groaned as his bones creaked under the treatment.

"Right," Ron muttered, he tugged badges out of pocket, simple white buttons that looked like nothing special. He clipped one on to Harry's larger Polyjuice frame before doing the same to the others. "These are just for me. I'm never gonna remember your new faces. These will tell me that your part of the team I'm on."

' _Said the blind man?'_

There had to be something else to all of this. Ron seemed to be able to see _some_ things, but not others. It was truly the strangest sort of blindness Harry had ever encountered and he knew that it was probably something simple he was missing.

' _You could just ask him,'_ his mind told him reasonably. Now wasn't the time though. They were seconds away from port keying to Numberland to infiltrate a black market. _'Sounds like a conversation that should definitely be had before marching into a dangerous mission.'_

He dismissed his common sense.

"Ron will be sticking with me for the duration of the mission," Keegan called.

Harry's head whipped up. Technically, he was aware he would be working with Aiden and Ferris on this mission, but he hadn't considered that it meant he wouldn't be partnering with Ron. Harry looked over at Ron, gesturing at something unseen. Leif appeared, quickly zooming into his pocket and securing herself.

Keegan had pulled out his wand and was gesturing to a small disk with five handles attached to it.

"On three, grab the port key. One…"

"Wait," Harry called, wondering if Ron was even able to see the contraption.

"Two."

This was such a terrible idea.

"Three!"

Harry grabbed his ring.


	23. Chapter 19: Nox Wrack

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 19: Nox Wrack

They landed in Numberland without a hitch. The Team of disguised Aurors and their guide made their way very swiftly the few miles distance. It surprised Harry just how well Ron managed to navigate despite his seemingly endless handicaps. A few whispered words with random strangers along the way had them being ushered along through barriers that Harry hadn't even realized were _there_. Yet Somehow Ron knew of them and was able to talk their way through the unspoken tests.

Before Harry knew what was happening, they were at a cliff. 'The final barrier,' as Ron had put it.

Ron walked up to the stone wall and straight through it. He and his fellow Aurors hesitated only a moment before following suit.

Columns. Stretching a dozen feet across and with a height that matched the cliffs they'd been staring at for their journey. Between them was a gaping stairwell into the earth, disappearing into darkness, lit only by sparse bobbing balls of light inside lanterns.

What really caught his attention though, were the two guards. One Goblin and one wizard. Brains and muscle. Ron marched up to them without a word, pulling out a coin and handing it to them. The goblin examined it and nodded before grabbing Ron's wrist and running his wand over the tattoo there. Harry held his breath.

"Trade?" The goblin demanded.

Harry let out the breath, a little unnerved by how quickly their infiltration was being accepted as normal passage.

"Potions," Ron answered. "Messis."

The goblins eyes widened, even the broad-shouldered wizard looked interested now. Harry had never heard of Messis before, but from the rigid stance of Keegan, he guessed it was very rare and very illegal.

The goblin grinned, crooked and intrigued, gesturing for Ron to show him. For a moment, Ron did nothing and Harry realized that Ron couldn't see the arm movements. He noticed the fire fairy lean into Ron's ear and say something which caused Ron to pull out a small black bag. He reached in and from it came a set of vials. A deep honey yellow in color, black tendrils trailing inside of it.

"We didn't get word that any trader was looking to buy," the goblin said slowly, he didn't sound suspicious, but his eyes squinted up at Ron, watching him carefully.

"The buyers are behind me. They wanted to see the potential harvest Travers has. Thinks he's gonna give them a weak necropsy."

"And he's expecting you?" The goblin asked.

"More or less," Ron shrugged. "You know how he can be with people thinkin' his product is funny. Best to just… show up. I got his money and the trade though, so he should behave."

The goblin nodded slowly, the suspicion melting away with the familiarity Ron was showing. He waved his wand and the wizard stepped aside. There was a shift in the air, like rippling glass, and then the stairwell exploded in sound. Haggling. Buying. Selling. A thousand voices near deafening him from down the halls glowing light.

Ron took out his wand and waved it over his head before pointing it at Harry. He almost took a step back, but forced himself to stand still. Suddenly the noise was filtered out. Harry blinked, then nodded his thanks. Ron performed the spell three more times. A small pop too soft to be heard before the spell was cast sounded inside the small bubble of deafened noise.

"Everyone wears this spell here," Ron told them. "You can only hear those who are five feet from you."

They began the long descent, the fire fairy had straightened on Ron's shoulder, sparking madly. Ron was whispering something to her up ahead. He was moving quickly down the stairs, almost running, and Harry had to rush with the others to keep up.

"Maybe later, we can't risk it now!" Ron hissed.

"Risk what?" Harry called.

Ron gestured to the lights around them. Harry looked up and felt a chill go down his spine. Fairies. They sat inside lantern cages, all around them, being used like candles. Faces wilted with despair and pain. The fire fairy on Ron's shoulder sparked angrily, blue hair flaring until it was wild and free, but Ron barely seemed to notice the flames licking at his neck and hair.

"I won't leave them, but you have to behave, don't draw attention to yourself. You know what I have to do, right?" Ron was asking. The fire fairy stomped her foot and snapped something, but then she sat, smothering her flames. Harry edged closer, watching as Ron gingerly pointing his wand at the fairy.

A chain formed. The clink of metal echoing down the stairs from around the fairy's neck to connect with a metal piece now attached to Ron's ear like an earring. The little fire fairy gave Ron a foul look, tugging on the metal in annoyance.

"Sit in my hair so you don't have to look at it. It will be gone soon enough."

She did so, gathering in Ron's hair and almost invisible if not for the blue against black. The group finally exited the stairwell only to see a massive opening of a canyon like wall beneath the earth.

"This," Ron gestured to the thousands roaming the underground, "is Nox Wrack."

On either side of the canyon walls there was a steep, narrow ledge, all that was given to those who wanted to barter with shops on the higher levels. Harry counted them silently, getting to nearly thirty before the levels disappeared, having a hard time believing how easily the buyers were navigating the dangerous walkways.

"That seems ill advised," Aiden observed.

"It's totally in the seller's favor," Ron agreed. "If he doesn't like your haggling, he can just…" Ron made a pushing gesture. "Get rid of you."

"Where were you kept?" Ferris asked.

Ron flinched. Aiden elbowed Ferris, glowering at the older Auror.

"Were you dropped on your head as a babe?" The graduated Ravenclaw hissed.

Keegan stepped in, tone disapproving.

"Just because we're wearing these spells, doesn't mean no one is listening in."

Harry was too busy staring at the shops to add anything. At the owls in too small cages. The griffin feathers and house elf ears openly displayed for sale. Eggs were being examined as if they were jewels, dark objects being passed across stands as often as money, illegal weapon additions to wands along with holsters for easy use. This place was a nightmare.

"Are we sure we want to split up?" Aiden was asking, eyeing the pathway in weariness. "It seems Ron knows this place a lot better than any of us!"

"Names, greeny, names," Keegan snapped.

"The potions level is 36," Ron raised his voice, reminding them of their reason for being there, drowning them out with his rough, but strong baritone. "It's the most likely place Elone will be trying to sell her products or buying merchandise for it. She's probably not having any luck though. Stay clear of levels 40 and above."

Harry finally dragged his eyes away from the shops.

"What's there?"

"You'd need special clearance to get up there," Ron gestured to his merchant crest on the wrist, "if you tried without one then you'd be caught immediately. Those levels are for the trafficking of humans, magical creatures, and anything else with a pulse."

Ferris got his answer after all.

Harry nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. He _knew_ they were coming to a black market, but that was completely different from actually being inside a black market. The entire Auror Department wouldn't be able to make a dent in this place if they tried any tactical way to arrest these people. There were too many. They would escape and find a new place to set up.

As they passed a set of vanishing cabinets labelled 'escape routes' Harry, Ferris and Aiden separated from Ron and Keegan. Heading up towards level 36 as they traversed the lower levels. When they were out of ear shot, Ferris moved closer to him and Aiden, voice lowered despite the spell.

"How do you think he got here?"

Harry glared at the man, Aiden looked at the older Auror as if he were insane.

"Don't look at me like that. You want to know too," Ferris speared his finger at them. "I ain't said nothing that's odd if someone hears, either."

Aiden frowned, keeping a lookout of the area as they went to the lifts and stepped inside, they were lucky, catching one as a large group exited and managing to get the lift all to themselves.

"Snatchers, most likely," Aiden finally said. "Probably realized they'd get paid more here."

"For Potter's right hand?" Ferris whispered, incredulous.

Torn between being furious and knowing that he himself had demanded it last night. Caught only a few hundred feet from his brothers after escaping Numberland. So instead, he said.

"They probably didn't know it was him. He's a terrible liar, but he knows how to manipulate people."

Saying the words out loud reminded Harry that it was true. Ron was horrible when it came to outright lying, but he could manipulate the truth like no one's business. He could down play and over-exaggerate and deviate a conversation like no other. It reminded him of how Ron managed to divert Umbridge for so long while Harry was in the woman's office making a fire call. How Ron would try to cheer him up with stories of his family, with over dramatized movements and blown up interpretations of what they said. Not lying, but not the truth. A middle ground.

Ron was always a middle ground.

How had he forgotten that?

The doors opened. The three men stepped out onto floor 36.

"Remember greenies, don't say each other's names," Ferris growled, looking up and down the aisle. "Stick to the story. Looking to trade Messis and heard Elone's looking for some. Got it?"

Harry nodded.

He was glad this was one of those things that Hermione hadn't come for. Her heading off for law legislation instead of law enforcement had been a good call. She had never willingly wanted to fight on the front lines, but rather had been thrust there.

Here, looking at the disfigured house elves being screamed at to move merchandise faster, he knew she would have been devastated. Not that Harry was handling it well, but… It was handling it better.

He approached the first non-threatening looking man and leaned against the counter next to him, eyeing the illegal potions behind the counter top.

"I hear Elone Pep Trearacel is looking for Merris, you know how far that rumor goes?"

* * *

Severe Claustrophobia.

Danny Prang had diagnosed him with it in those first few weeks, but he'd rarely confronted the issue. Anxiety caused by large groups of people. Large spaces did nothing if it was filled with humans and goblins and magical creatures, all pressing in on him. Jostling his shoulders and grazing his sides.

Being inside of Nox Wrack again was like being asked to sit quietly at the front of class with the entire student body made up of Death Eaters, watching your back, and Voldemort as the teacher. Ron knew a hit was coming. Too many eyes following him. Someone was going to attack him, it was just a matter of where. What they would use to take him down.

Worse.

The first shot would cause a domino effect on the others here. All the shadowy figures would turn as one to bear down on him and Ron wouldn't be able to fight that many. This was the shittiest of shit ideas anyone had ever had. He wasn't sure who was the bigger fool, Tonks for coming up with it, or himself for actually agreeing.

He pulled at his jacket, unzipping, trying to get all the air he was losing back. Leif wasn't doing much better than him. She was rigid atop his head. The little fire fairy tugging harshly at his hair every time one of the figures turned their way. She was whispering fairy curses under her breath, bending down low to make herself as small as possible.

"Try counting to three," Keegan said sternly from beside him. "Take a deep breath and hold it for three seconds before letting it go for three seconds. Repeat that pattern."

Ron jerked his head in something like a nod of acknowledgement before trying it out, knowing full well that his panicking was drawing attention to them even if he couldn't see it. One-Two-Three. He held his breath, the too tight feel of a clothed shoulder brushing against his arm, causing him to lose it a second later. He tried again. One-Two-Three.

Keegan moved away from him. No doubt spotting an ideal place to leave the surveillance charm.

"First time in Nox?" A woman's voice purred.

He lost his breath again.

A small chin landed on his shoulder, soft skin of a cheek sliding against his much rougher one. He tilted his head towards her, giving a tight smile. Hair brushed against his ear, tickling it, as he focused on deepening his shortened breath. Then, Ron reached out and grabbed the feminine wrist inside his coat pocket.

"Not my first, no," Ron wheezed out.

He squeezed her wrist until she was forced to release his wallet before using his free hand to trace around to her other hand that was lingering around his waist, bringing both hands between them. He glanced around, trying to make it look as if he were looking for the second thief. He felt the hand brushing against his ass stiffen. Turning, he glared at the person, the shadowy figure backing away slowly before disappearing into the crowd.

"So, what are you selling?" The woman asked, conversationally, as if Ron wasn't restraining her and they weren't in the middle of one of the most dangerous places in England. He focused on his breathing, not the crowd. He focused on the woman. Not the pressure all around him. One-Two-Three. Ron broadened his smile, stretching the skin until his canines showed. A trick Odin had taught him. Staring down as best he could to where he thought her eyes must be.

"Fur Interfectorum," Ron replied back, "Special brand for the sills of the shops here. Want to try it out?"

Rather than pull away from him, she turned her wrists so that it 'looked' as if they were holding hands. She moved closer, bringing their bodies against each other.

"Maybe some other time," the woman whispered, her voice the subtle rasp of a smokers, just a few years down the road, but still gentle enough for the feminine quality to ring clear. "I've been asked to deliver a message from level 47 for Spitfire."

Ron's blood ran cold.

He jerked backwards, pulling them towards the ledge, five floors of open air one easy step left. The woman's muscles tensed under his hold, but her voice was still the same slippery sweet note as before.

"Jagged Tooth is for sale. Buy him."

So startled by the information was he that his grip slipped. The woman slipped away just as easily. Ron found himself reaching out to her, but there was nothing. Even the shadow figure had disappeared.

 _Jagged Tooth._

A burly bear of a man smiled at him in his memory. Teeth on his right side broken inwards, jagged teeth displayed, battle scars of being captured. Like Miss. Hufflepuff's shoulder, the socket pulled out multiple times from Death Eaters holding her down, raping her. It forever looked crooked, the bone out of line. Like the Old Man's chest, extra skin sagging around his waist from rapid weight loss. The tip of the Old Man's tongue cut off for talking back.

Ron's eyes.

Ron's leg.

Spitfire.

He tried to picture them in front of him, but all that came to mind were nightmares. The Old Man's broken body, brown eyes staring blankly at him in death. Miss. Hufflepuff being dragged away by her hair. Jagged Tooth holding the corpse of his wife in his arms; a woman who'd tried to rescue her husband and instead had been used as a means to break the man.

His foot slipped.

Ron felt air. His hands scrambled to find purchase where there was none. Then hands. Big hands with a strong grip had a tight grip on his shoulders. He was pulled forward into just as strong arms.

"What did she say to you?" Keegan's voice asked. The man tugged him away from the edge. The reminder had him feeling his pouch. Did he even have enough to buy a human? Could the woman be trusted? There was only one thing Ron could say for certain.

"We've been compromised," Ron said shortly. "The woman recognized me."

Keegan cursed.

The Auror Captain dragged him into a hidden alcove, before shooting up a small flare spell. It reached far into the cannon, silent, like a small arrow, heading towards Harry Potter's hand. There it would form the information.

"How many did you get to drop?" Keegan asked.

"Half of the stones I was given," Ron answered.

"That will have to be good enough," Keegan muttered grimly. "We're aborting the mission."

"I need to do one thing before we go," Ron told him.

"What?"

"Buy livestock."

* * *

Harry wandered from potion shop to potion shop. He wasn't good at subtlely dropping the surveillance charms and so had taken the smallest pile. Ferris heading off with a cheery; 'know thy weaknesses' remark. He moved down the line. Only targeting every tenth or so shop, to try to ease off suspicion when he passed within hearing distance of a familiar term.

"…its true? Spitfires resurfaced?"

Spitfire. That was a code name of some kind for the werewolf ally. Harry wasn't convinced it was Mad Eye, though after Ron coming back from the seeming dead, he supposed anything was possible.

"Someone knows who he really is and has been keeping tabs on him. Says Spitfire's laying low. You know he's got a plan though. Been meeting with the wolves. Pulling strings with the Ministry."

"He's not a Boggart, Allen, he was just a stubborn Order member, nothing more. Don't make him out to be something like the dark lord or Potter."

"You never saw him fight," was the sharp reply.

Harry picked up a vial, pretending to read the inscription and its uses.

"I'm telling you, maybe his spells weren't on par with the dark lord, but he moved like a demon and led them beasts like he was some sort of fire creature from the pits of hell."

"I thought he was missing a leg?"

"That's the thing. He is missing a leg. Fucker acted like he never needed on in the first place. A bloody nightmare come to life, it was."

"You're full of shit."

The wizards moved away and Harry lost track of them in the crowd. Maybe Hermione was on to something. Who else was missing a leg and part of the 'Order?' Hope flared in his chest. He missed the gruff, one eyed man.

He missed everyone. Moody. Arthur. Charlie. Bill and Fleur. Seamus. Remus and Sirius. Hagrid. Merlin, he missed Hagrid. The ache in his chest throbbed and Harry forced himself to step away from those thoughts. Keeping busy and moving forward had gotten them this far.

Harry scanned the area before catching site of cages being moved to the floors above. He stilled. A familiar dark skinned man caused him to lose his breath. He grabbed onto the sill next to him, barely believing what he saw. Half of his dreadlocks hacked off and barely recognizable was one of the missing Order members in Hermione's case files. The man who had been going to meet Remus Lupin at his own private safe house.

It was Lee Jordan.


End file.
